It started when Jordyn Harlow stood up.

She’d been laughing with her friends a moment ago. Now she was walking. Purposefully. Weaving between tables with a loose, confident stride that parted the sea of students like Moses. Her eyes were locked on something at the far end of the line.

And then her hand moved.

Fast. A casual flick of the wrist, like swatting a fly. The tray—plastic, beige, laden with a sad scoop of iceberg lettuce and a single cherry tomato—clattered to the floor. Dressing splattered. Croutons scattered. The cherry tomato rolled to a stop against Jordyn’s white sneaker.

But you didn’t smell like fear today.

Your hand, which had been hovering over the mess, stilled.

Your head lifted.

Your eyes met hers—and for the first time in three years, there wasn’t a tremor in your gaze. There was heat.

A flush crept up Jordyn’s neck. Pink. Unbidden. She didn’t blink, but her jaw tightened.

For a long, terrible second, she didn’t move.

The silence in the cafeteria stretched thin as a wire.