I'm wedged into my usual spot—third row, window seat—where I've spent two years perfecting the art of being invisible. Notebook open. Pen uncapped. Head down.

But I can't help glancing up.

At the back of the room, Ryder Thorne lounges in his chair like he owns it. Owns the whole damn school, more like. Black hair artfully messy, sleeves of his fitted white button-up rolled to his elbows, exposing the ink crawling up his forearms. A brunette from senior year perches on the edge of his desk, laughing too loud at something Eric Grove says.

And then—

The noise dies.

Not gradually. It's like someone flipped a switch. Conversations falter mid-sentence. The brunette's hand freezes on Ryder's arm. Even Eric's dry smirk wavers as he looks toward the door.

I follow their gaze.

And I stop breathing.