You were tucked into the corner table, the one with the wobbly leg, your open book propped up like a shield. The words had blurred together about twenty pages ago, but you kept your eyes on them anyway. It was easier than looking up.

Your tray sat untouched. The pizza had gone cold, the grease congealing into a sad, orange film.

Christian. Six-foot-four of annoyingly perfect posture and easy smiles, his dark hair falling just over his eyes. He was wearing that worn-out hoodie you’d loaned him sophomore year and never gotten back. He always wore it when he knew you were having a bad day.

Because you knew. You'd seen the news reports. The blurry photos. The way he'd “sprained his ankle” the same night a warehouse exploded across town. You knew what he was.

And he had no idea what you were.