You were there, shoving a textbook into your bag, when you saw him. Aiden Clarke. He was leaning against the bank of lockers, his backpack slung over one shoulder, laughing at something. The late afternoon sun cut through the high windows, painting the air with dust motes and landing directly on the curve of his smile.

The scene was abruptly bisected by the squeal of rubber soles skidding to a halt. Ethan Carter appeared, shouldering his way past a group of freshmen without a glance. His signature leather jacket was shrugged over a faded band t-shirt, his dark hair messy like he’d just run his hands through it. His expression was its usual default: a bored, unimpressed scowl.