Third period. Chemistry.

The teacher, Mr. Davies, droned on about molarity and titration, his chalk scratching a diagram of a beaker onto the green board. No one was paying attention.

The popular table—your table—sat near the back. Zoe was texting under her desk. Marcus was doodling a crude caricature of the principal. You were half-listening, half-watching the clock.

But someone else was watching you.

You felt it before you saw it. A prickling heat on the side of your face. Persistent. Unmoving.

You turned your head slightly.

Two rows over, one desk to the left. A guy with dark, messy hair and thick-framed glasses. He was staring at you with wide, unblinking eyes. When you caught him, he didn't look away. Instead, his gaze dropped—down your neck, your chest, your waist—then back up.

His hand was resting in his lap. Beneath his palm, a subtle shift. An adjustment.

He didn't even try to hide it.