The hallway hit me like a wave—heat, noise, the chemical sweetness of someone's strawberry lip gloss mixing with the sharp tang of floor wax. I felt the fabric of the shirt Chloe had picked out pulling tight across my chest, the cotton soft but unforgiving, stretching over the curve of my breasts without a bra beneath. The chill of the morning air kissed my nipples through the thin material, and I knew—I absolutely knew—that every pair of eyes that swept across me landed there first, then trailed down to the denim skirt riding high on my thighs.

My hair swung heavy against my lower back, a black curtain I could feel swaying with each step. The thong was a constant pressure, a reminder. I loved it.

"You're going to cause a car accident," Chloe said beside me, her voice dry as toast. She was scrolling through her phone, but I caught the smirk tugging at her lips. "And we're inside. Impressive."

"Good." I let my hips roll a little more. Let my heels click sharper against the linoleum. "Let them look."

"They're already looking. They've been looking since you walked through the doors." She pocketed her phone. "You know Derek's going to crawl out of whatever hole he's hiding in the second he spots you."

I didn't answer. I was scanning. Marcus's locker was two rows down, near the southeast stairwell. I'd memorized his schedule. First floor, humanities wing, between second and third period.

But I didn't see him yet.

What I heard was Derek's laugh—that loud, practiced bark he thought made him sound dominant. It echoed off the lockers, bouncing down the corridor, and my feet slowed before my brain caught up.

Chloe stopped too. "Oh, for fuck's sake."

I turned the corner and saw them.

Derek had Marcus backed against the lockers near the water fountain. His boys fanned out around him—Grant, Tyler, some other meathead whose name I'd never bothered to learn. Marcus's height didn't matter in that moment. He was hunched, arms half-raised, his baggy gray hoodie swallowing his frame. Isaac stood a few feet to the side, his chubby face red, his fists clenched. Tony was beside him, gangly and frozen.

And Pearl. Pearl was pressed against Marcus's side, her flat hand clutching his forearm, her short bob swinging as she glared at Derek.

The sight of her there—touching him—sent something cold and sharp through my chest. A wire tightening. A shutter closing.

"Come on, Hayes," Derek was saying, his voice loud enough for the whole hallway to hear. "You gonna let your friends fight for you? Or you gonna say something? Oh wait—you can't, can you?" He laughed. "Stutter's acting up again?"

I saw Marcus's jaw tighten. Saw his throat work. He was trying. The words were locked somewhere behind his teeth, and I could feel the effort it took him to even open his mouth.

"L-leave them alone, Derek."

It came out quiet. Fragile. But it came out.

Derek stepped closer. "What was that? Didn't catch it."

I moved.

Chloe grabbed my wrist. "Lila." Her voice was low. "Let me handle the dogs. You handle the big one."

I met her eyes. She was already smiling—that sharp, knowing smile she used when she was about to ruin someone's morning. She released my wrist and stepped forward, her voice cutting through the noise like a blade.

"Derek. Coach Patterson is looking for your squad. Something about eligibility forms."

Derek turned. His face shifted from aggression to confusion to—when he saw me standing behind Chloe—a grin. Hungry. Familiar. The same grin he'd worn since freshman year, like he'd already won something he hadn't even competed for.

"Lila." He said my name like it belonged to him. "Hey. You coming to the game Friday?"

I didn't answer. I walked past Chloe. Past Isaac. Past Tony. Past Pearl, whose eyes widened as I brushed by her.

I stopped in front of Derek and grabbed his arm. His bicep was hard under my fingers, but I didn't care. I pulled him sideways, away from the group, away from Marcus, until we were half-hidden behind the row of lockers near the stairwell.

"Whoa—" He was grinning, confused, hopeful. "Lila, what—"

I leaned in. Let my lips brush the shell of his ear. Let my breath warm his skin.

"Derek." I kept my voice soft. Honey-thick. "If you want my attention?"

I felt him hold his breath.

"Go away."

I pulled back. Held his gaze. Watched the confusion bloom behind his eyes, then the flicker of understanding, then the slow, reluctant nod.

He swallowed. "Yeah. Okay." He ran a hand through his hair. "I—yeah. Okay."

He turned. Walked back to his boys. Grabbed Grant's shoulder. "Let's go. Coach wants us."

They left. Just like that. The hallway lightened. The pressure released.

I turned back to Marcus's group.

Isaac was staring at me like I'd grown a second head. Tony's mouth was hanging open. Pearl's hand was still on Marcus's arm, but her face had gone blank—that careful, frozen look of someone who's just realized they're standing on unstable ground.

And Marcus.

Marcus was looking at me.

Really looking. Not the quick glances he stole in the cafeteria, not the flustered half-looks when I pressed my knee against his. This was a full, direct gaze, his hazel eyes wide, his throat working, his breath caught somewhere between his chest and his mouth.

He was holding a notebook against his chest. His knuckles were white. The spine was creaking under the pressure.

I walked toward him. My heels clicked. The hallway noise faded into a dull hum.

I stopped a foot away. Close enough to see the scar through his left eyebrow, the small gap between his front teeth that I'd only caught glimpses of, the way his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed.

"Hey," I said.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Nothing came out.

Isaac cleared his throat. "Lila, that was—I mean, how did you—"

"I have my ways." I didn't look away from Marcus. "You okay?"

Marcus's fingers tightened on the notebook. The pages crinkled. His eyes were locked on mine, and I could see the war happening behind them—the need to say something, the panic of the words not coming, the desperate hope that I would understand.

The notebook slipped.

It hit the floor with a slap, pages splaying wide, loose sheets scattering across the linoleum. Marcus jerked, bending immediately, his long frame folding as he reached for them.

I bent at the same time.

Our heads almost collided. His hand stopped inches from mine, hovering over a loose page covered in dense equations. I picked it up. Held it out to him.

"Here."

He took it. His fingers brushed mine. Warm. Calloused. Trembling.

He straightened. I straightened. The stack of papers was clutched against his chest again, and he was staring at me like I was something he'd never seen before.

"I—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Th-thank you."

Two words. But they were for me.

"You're welcome."

Pearl shifted. Her hand was still on his arm, and I saw it—the way her fingers tightened, the way she pressed herself closer to him.

"Marcus, we should get to class." Her voice was flat. Careful. "The bell's about to ring."

I didn't look at her. I kept my eyes on Marcus. Let the silence stretch. Let him feel the weight of my attention, the pressure of my gaze, the question I hadn't asked yet.

"I'll see you at lunch?"

His breath caught. His knuckles went white on the notebook. The spine creaked.

He opened his mouth.

And nothing came out.

The hallway noise faded. The seconds stretched. I stood there, waiting, watching the war in his eyes, feeling the charge of the moment thicken between us like heat before a storm.

He just stared at me. The notebook creaking in his grip. The words locked somewhere I couldn't reach.

But I didn't look away. I didn't fill the silence. I let him feel the weight of my waiting, and I let him know, without a single word, that I would stand there as long as it took.

Chloe's hand closed around my wrist—firm, insistent, the kind of grip that meant business. Her fingernails pressed crescent moons into my skin as she tugged, and I felt the magnetic pull of her urgency breaking the spell I'd cast over Marcus.

"Come on," she said, her voice low enough that only I could hear the edge beneath it. "Bell's about to ring, and you know how Patterson gets when you're late to his class. He'll make you do that stupid breathing exercise in front of everyone."

I let her pull me back a step. Then another. But my eyes stayed locked on Marcus—on the way his chest was still rising and falling too fast, on the white of his knuckles where he gripped that notebook, on the way his mouth was still half-open, still trying to form words that wouldn't come.

"I'll see you at lunch," I said.

The words came out soft. A promise. A claim. I felt them settle in the air between us, heavier than they had any right to be.

Marcus nodded. A quick, jerky motion. His throat worked. His eyes were still wide, still fixed on me like I was something he couldn't quite believe was real.

Isaac raised a hand in an awkward wave. "Yeah—lunch. We'll be there. Same table." He shot a glance at Marcus, then back at me, and I caught the grin tugging at his round cheeks. "Definitely same table."

Tony echoed him with a thumbs-up, his gangly frame relaxing now that Derek was gone and the pressure had lifted.

And Pearl. Pearl was still pressed against Marcus's side, her hand still clamped on his forearm. Her face was a mask—blank, careful, the expression of someone who was calculating every variable in real time. She didn't say a word. Didn't have to.

I smiled at the group. Wide. Warm. The smile I used when I wanted people to feel chosen.

"Can't wait."

Chloe pulled me around the corner before I could say anything else. Her grip didn't loosen until we were out of sight, hidden behind the row of lockers near the stairwell, the hallway noise fading to a distant thrum of voices and slamming metal.

She stopped. Turned to face me. Her green eyes swept over my body with the clinical precision of someone who'd been dressing me since freshman year.

"Hold still."

"What—"

Her hands were already on me. Fingers hooking into the collar of my shirt, tugging it up, adjusting the way the cotton fell across my chest. She smoothed the fabric over my collarbone, then—without any warning or ceremony—cupped both my breasts and shifted them.

I sucked in a breath. Not from pain. From the sheer surprise of it, the intimacy of her touch, the way her palms pressed my nipples flat against the cotton before repositioning them.

"Your left one was sitting crooked," she said, as if that explained everything. "The whole shirt was pulling sideways. You looked lopsided."

I looked down. She was right. The fabric fell straighter now, the tension across my chest more even, the outline of my nipples visible but symmetrical. I could see the faint dark circles of them pressing against the gray material, two shadows that everyone would notice and no one would mention.

"Better?" I asked.

"Better." She stepped back, tilted her head, assessed me like a painting. "You want them to stare at your tits, fine. But at least let them stare at them properly."

I laughed. A real laugh, the kind that came up from my chest and spilled out before I could stop it. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet." She reached into her back pocket and pulled out her phone, already scrolling. "I've got intel."

My laughter died. The warmth in my chest cooled into something sharper, more focused. "Tell me."

We started walking. The hallway was thinning, the stragglers rushing past us with backpacks half-open and papers fluttering. We fell into step beside each other, shoulders brushing, heads angled together like we were sharing secrets in a crowded room.

"Pearl's schedule is boring," Chloe said, her thumb swiping across the screen. "She's predictable. Every day, same routine. She gets to campus at seven-forty, goes straight to the library, studies until first period. Eats lunch at your boy's table. Goes to math team practice after school. Goes home." She looked up. "She doesn't party. Doesn't hang out with anyone outside the math club. Doesn't have a car, so she takes the bus."

"That's it?"

"That's it. She's a creature of habit." Chloe pocketed her phone. "But here's the interesting part. She's got Marcus's schedule memorized. I saw her notebook—she left it open on the table during third period yesterday. She's got his class times written in the margins. His locker number. Even his bus route."

The wire in my chest tightened. Cinched. The image of Pearl's flat handwriting pressed into notebook margins, recording Marcus's movements like he was a subject in a study, sent something cold slithering through my veins.

"She's tracking him," I said.

"She's obsessed." Chloe's voice was flat. Matter-of-fact. "Which, you know. Pot calling the kettle black."

"I'm not obsessed."

"You sent Derek a nude last night so he'd leave Marcus alone. You're wearing a shirt that shows your nipples to the entire school. You just stared at a boy for thirty seconds without blinking because he couldn't say your name." She raised an eyebrow. "You're not obsessed, Lila. You're *hunting*."

I didn't answer. Because she wasn't wrong.

We turned down the humanities corridor, the door to Patterson's classroom visible at the far end. The late bell was going to ring any second, and I could feel the weight of Chloe's gaze on the side of my face, waiting for me to say something.

"Did you find anything else?" I asked.

"She's got a blog."

I stopped walking. "A what?"

"A blog." Chloe pulled out her phone again, scrolled to a screen, held it up. "It's called—I'm not kidding—'The Quiet Corner.' She posts poetry. Bad poetry. About wanting to be seen by someone who doesn't notice her."

I took the phone. Read the first few lines. My lips pressed together.

He walks through the hall like a shadow,

And I am the air he breathes.

He doesn't know my name yet.

But I am patient.

I handed the phone back. "She's delusional."

"She's competitive. And she's not going to back down just because you smiled at her." Chloe pocketed the phone. "You're going to have to work for this one."

"Good."

The word came out sharp. Hungry. I felt it settle in my chest like a promise I was already keeping.

The classroom door was open. Patterson was at the board, his back to us, writing something about rhetorical devices. I could see the empty desks, the clock ticking toward the bell, the way the fluorescents buzzed overhead like a million tiny wings trapped in glass tubes.

"Lila." Chloe's voice was softer now. "You really like him."

It wasn't a question.

I turned to look at her. Her honey-blonde hair caught the fluorescent light, her green eyes sharp and knowing, her freckles scattered across her nose like a constellation I'd spent years learning to read.

"I don't know," I said. And it was the truth. "I just know I want him. And I don't like sharing."

She nodded. Slow. Deliberate. Like she'd already known the answer and was just waiting for me to admit it.

"Then we make sure Pearl understands the rules." She glanced at the door. "After class. I'll show you the rest of her blog. There's a post about the math competition that's... interesting."

"Interesting how?"

"She's planning something. A speech. Or a note. Something she's going to give him after they win." Chloe's lips curved. "She thinks they're going to win because of her."

A laugh bubbled up from my chest. Low. Mean. "She's going to lose more than the competition."

Chloe grinned. "That's my girl."

The bell rang.

Patterson turned, saw us standing in the doorway, and sighed the sigh of a man who had long ago accepted that girls like me didn't care about rhetorical devices.

"Miss Moretti. Miss Vance. How kind of you to join us."

"Wouldn't miss it, Mr. Patterson." I slid into my usual seat—third row, window side, the one where I could see the courtyard and the path Marcus would take to lunch. I settled my bag on my lap, crossed my legs, and felt the fabric of my skirt ride up my thighs.

Chloe sat beside me. She pulled out her notebook, but I saw her phone slide onto her lap, the screen tilted just enough for me to read.

Another blog post. This one titled The Day He Sees Me.

I read it while Patterson droned. The words blurred together—stanzas about quiet love, about being patient, about waiting for the moment when he finally looked at her the way she looked at him.

Halfway through, I stopped reading.

Because I didn't care what Pearl wanted.

I cared about what Marcus wanted. And what I wanted. And right now, both of those things were the same, and Pearl was standing in the way of something that was already mine.

I closed my eyes. Let the buzz of the fluorescent lights wash over me. Let my mind drift to the way Marcus had looked at me in the hallway—wide-eyed, breathless, undone—and I felt the hunger curl in my stomach like a living thing.

Three weeks until the math competition.

Three weeks to make sure Pearl knew exactly where she stood.

I smiled. Small. Private. Sharp.

The bell couldn't ring fast enough.