Westbrook High's main hallway was a river of noise and motion. Students crashed into lockers, shouted greetings across the crowd, traded summer stories in rapid-fire bursts. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, washing everything in that sterile, slightly green tint that made everyone look vaguely unwell.

Y/N moved through the current with the easy, unhurried stride of someone who didn't care to be swept along. A few heads turned as he passed—they usually did. The glasses were the joke, the punchline to a question nobody ever actually asked. But the broad shoulders and the way his t-shirt pulled across his chest made people look twice, then look away when he caught them.

He'd just reached his locker when he heard it—a familiar voice, pitched with that particular brand of performative irritation that carried through crowds like a siren.

Zander Reed was striding toward him, flanked by two of his friends. He moved like he owned the hallway, which, to be fair, he mostly did. Letterman jacket, deliberately messy hair, jaw set in a way that was probably supposed to be intimidating. He was decently tall—most people thought so. Most people hadn't stood next to Y/N.