After forty-five minutes of lockdown drills and screaming, the room had settled into a weird, exhausted quiet. Backpacks unzipped. Phones checked. A collective groan when the teacher announced the project.

The desks had been rearranged into pairs. You and him. Your name written next to his on the whiteboard in the teacher's messy handwriting.

He was already looking at you when you turned. Dark brown locs pulled back, a silver chain resting against his collarbone. His jaw was sharp, his eyes—warm, honey-brown—lingered on you a second too long before he looked down at the worksheet.

He cleared his throat.

One of them—Brianna, with the hoop earrings and the side-eye—muttered something to her friend. They giggled. They were glaring at you like it was your fault their lockdown scream-a-thon got the whole class punished.

Isaiah didn't even glance at them.