Ridgewood High hasn’t changed. Same beige walls. Same flickering fluorescent lights. Same smell of floor wax and teenage anxiety.

And then Y/n sees him.

Ezra Wilson is leaning against the lockers by the south stairwell, arms crossed, one boot propped against the metal like he has all the time in the world. His black leather jacket is worn at the elbows, covered in faded patches — band logos Y/n doesn't recognize. A silver chain hangs from his belt loop. His ripped jeans sit low, and when he shifts his weight, the rings on his fingers catch the light.

His eyebrow piercing glints. The small silver hoop in his nose. His ears, lined with studs and tunnels.

He looks older. Sharper. Unbothered.

The crowd parts around him like water around a stone.