The borrowed sweater smelled like Chloe's perfume — something floral and clean, a scent that clung to the cotton like a second skin. It was a little too big on me, the sleeves falling past my wrists, the hem brushing the top of my thighs. I'd pulled it on over my gray "I ♥ Pi" shirt, letting it hang open just enough that the collar still showed, a tease of what was underneath.

The late afternoon sun hit my face as I stepped out of the humanities building, the heat still thick and golden even as the day started to cool. I could hear them before I saw them — the thud of bodies hitting the turf, the bark of coaches, the laughter and trash talk that carried across the field like a living thing.

Football practice.

I walked toward the chain-link fence, my heels clicking against the concrete path, the denim of my skirt riding up with every step. I'd changed into Chloe's sweater but I hadn't changed out of the skirt — tiny, faded blue, the edges frayed at the hem. The thong line was probably visible. I didn't care.

The guys were taking a break, scattered across the bleachers and the grass, water bottles tipped back, sweat glistening on their arms and necks. Derek was at the center of them, his letterman jacket off, his practice jersey clinging to his chest, his face flushed from the heat.

I saw the moment he noticed me. His head came up, his eyes tracking me as I walked toward the fence, and the easy grin that spread across his face made something twist in my stomach — not pleasure, not disgust, just a kind of tooled satisfaction. He was predictable. That was the point.

"Lila?" He stood up, tossing his water bottle to one of his friends. "What are you doing here?"

I held up his jacket — the one he'd draped over me in the courtyard, the one I'd worn like armor while Marcus watched through the glass. "Brought this back." I let my voice go soft, almost shy. "You were so nice to let me borrow it. I wanted to return it myself."

I stepped through the gap in the fence, the metal cool under my fingers, and walked right up to him. The other guys were watching — I could feel their eyes on me, the weight of their attention, the way the conversation had died the moment I'd appeared.

Derek's grin widened. "You didn't have to walk all the way out here."

"I wanted to." I held out the jacket, folded neatly over my arm. "Really. Thank you, Derek."

He took it, his fingers brushing mine, and for a second I let him think it meant something. Let him think the warmth in my voice was for him. Then I leaned in, rose on my toes, and pressed my lips to his cheek.

His skin was warm and salty, the taste of sweat and summer, and I held the kiss just long enough to feel him go still beneath it.

"See you around," I whispered, and pulled away.

I turned before he could respond, before he could reach for me, and walked back toward the fence. I made sure my hips swayed. Made sure my skirt rode up just a little higher. Made sure the guys behind me got a view they'd remember.

I heard it before I reached the gate.

"Holy shit, Russo."

"Look at that ass, man."

"How the fuck did you land that?"

"She's fucking perfect."

The hollering rose behind me like a wave — whistles, catcalls, the kind of noise that usually made me roll my eyes. I kept walking. Let them look. Let them talk. I could feel their gazes on the back of my thighs, on the curve of my hips, on the way the sweater shifted with every step.

"You better lock that down, Russo."

"Fuck, man, look at her walk away."

I pretended I couldn't hear them. The perfect, oblivious queen, gliding across the grass like I hadn't just set fire to every thought in their heads.

But I heard. I always heard.

And I knew that every word they said would find its way back to Marcus. Not through me. Through the air itself, through the way gossip moved through a campus this small. Through the way Derek would puff his chest out and let everyone know that Lila Moretti had kissed him on the cheek, had walked away with her ass bouncing, had chosen him — even for a moment.

Let him think that.

Let Marcus hear it.

I reached the path and turned toward the math building, the concrete cool under my heels, the comic book still tucked against my side. The silver foil caught the light as I shifted it, a glint of something precious — something meant only for him.

The math building was quiet. Most of the classrooms were empty this late, the halls dim and cool, the air carrying that particular smell of dry-erase markers and old paper. I knew the way to Room 204 by heart now — I'd memorized the route the same way Pearl had memorized Marcus's schedule, a silent act of devotion I'd never admit aloud.

The door was half-open, and I could hear voices inside. Isaac's laugh, high and bright. Tony's voice, faster, talking over him. And then Marcus's — low, soft, the words coming slow and careful, the way they always did when he was thinking.

I paused at the threshold, let myself watch for a moment.

They were gathered around a long table, practice sheets and calculators scattered across the surface like a battlefield. Isaac was hunched over a notebook, his chubby frame pressed against the edge of the table, while Tony gestured wildly with a pencil, explaining something I couldn't follow. And Marcus —

Marcus was at the head of the table, a pencil in his long fingers, his eyes fixed on a page of equations. His brow was furrowed, his jaw set, and even in the dim fluorescent light I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hoodie pulled across his back as he leaned forward.

There was no Pearl.

I felt a small, vicious bloom of satisfaction in my chest.

I pushed the door open, let it swing wider, and stepped inside.

"Hey, guys."

Isaac's head shot up first. His face broke into a grin, warm and surprised, the kind of genuine happiness that made me almost feel bad for using him. "Lila! Hey!"

Tony turned, his pencil still raised, and his smile was just as bright. "You came back."

I let my gaze drift to Marcus. He was looking at me now, his pencil frozen mid-tap, his eyes wide and unreadable. I couldn't tell if he was happy to see me or still stuck on the image of me sitting with Derek, Derek's hand on my knee, Derek's jacket around my shoulders.

"I said I would," I said softly, and I meant it for him.

I walked to the table, letting the comic book rest on top of my folded arms, letting them see it — the silver foil, the cover, the thing I'd brought just for him.

Isaac's eyes went wide. "Is that —"

"Ultimate X." I set it on the table, turned it so they could see the full cover. "Limited run. Silver foil on the logo. Five hundred copies total."

Tony let out a low whistle. "Where the hell did you get that?"

"Pre-ordered it months ago." I shrugged, the motion casual, practiced. "I figured Marcus might want to see it."

I slid it across the table toward him, the paper whispering against the wood.

Marcus's hand moved before he seemed to realize it. His fingers touched the edge of the cover, tracing the foil with a reverence that made my chest tighten. He didn't speak. He just looked at it, his hazel eyes tracing every line of the art, his breath held like he was afraid it would disappear.

"I…" He swallowed. His voice came out rough. "I've never seen one in person."

"Now you have." I sat down in the chair beside him, close enough that my shoulder almost brushed his. "You can look at it as long as you want."

Isaac leaned over, his eyes eating up the cover. "The detail on that is insane. Look at the line work on the suit."

Tony crowded in from the other side. "The silver foil on the logo — I've seen pictures, but it's different in person."

They were both talking, their voices overlapping, but I wasn't listening. I was watching Marcus. The way his thumb traced the edge of the comic. The way his jaw tightened. The way he still hadn't looked up at me.

"Marcus."

His head lifted, slow, like he was surfacing from deep water.

"You okay?" I asked, my voice soft.

He blinked. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Then he nodded, once, sharp and quick, and looked back down at the comic.

I wanted to reach out and touch him. Wanted to put my hand over his and feel the warmth of his skin, the weight of his fingers. But I didn't. Not yet. I let the silence sit, let the moment breathe.

"So." Isaac leaned back, his chair creaking. "We, uh. We wanted to apologize."

I raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

"For Pearl." Tony's voice was flat, the warmth gone. "She's been — I don't know how to say it. She's been a lot."

Isaac nodded, his face serious. "She's not on the team anymore."

I let my eyebrows rise, let surprise flicker across my face. "She's not?"

"Coach kicked her off," Tony said. "She's been making comments, distracting people. Said some stuff that wasn't okay."

I glanced at Marcus. He was still looking at the comic, but his jaw was tight, his fingers pressed flat against the cover.

"I'm sorry," Isaac said, and he sounded genuine. "For how she treated you. That wasn't — that's not who we are."

"It's fine," I said, and I meant it more than they knew. "I don't hold grudges."

It was a lie. I held grudges like they were currency, like they were food, like they were the only thing keeping me warm at night. But they didn't need to know that.

"So." I leaned forward, my elbows on the table. "Tell me about the competition. I want to know everything."

Isaac's face lit up. "Oh, man. Okay. So regionals is in three weeks, and we've been running practice problems every day after school."

"We've got a shot this year," Tony added, his voice picking up speed. "Last year we got third, but this year's team is stronger. Marcus has been crushing the advanced rounds."

"He won the entire thing last regional," Isaac said, nodding at Marcus. "Didn't tell you that, did he?"

I turned to Marcus, let my smile go warm and impressed. "Is that true?"

Marcus's ears went red. "I — it was —" He took a breath. Forced the words out. "It was a team effort."

"He's being modest," Tony said. "He carried us."

I let my knee drift under the table, just barely, just enough to brush against his. "That's incredible."

Marcus's breath caught. I felt it in the way his leg tensed, in the way his fingers tightened on the comic. He didn't pull away.

"You should come," Isaac said. "To the competition. It's at Northridge, it's a whole thing — there's a break room, snacks, you can watch through the glass."

"I'd love to." I let my voice go soft. "If you guys don't mind."

"Mind?" Tony laughed. "Lila, you're the only person who's ever actually wanted to come watch us do math."

"I like watching smart people do smart things." I said it lightly, but my eyes stayed on Marcus. "It's attractive."

His cheeks flushed. He looked down at the table, his fingers still tracing the edge of the comic, and I saw the ghost of a smile — barely there, fragile, but real.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

I pulled it out, glanced at the screen. Chloe.

how's the giant?

I typed back fast, one-handed, keeping my face smooth.

plan is working. find me someone who will catch derek's attention for me. someone hot.

I hit send and slid the phone back into my pocket, looking up just as Marcus's eyes met mine.

He was watching me. Really watching me, his gaze steady and searching, like he was trying to read something in my face. I held his gaze, let him look, let him wonder.

The phone buzzed again.

I didn't pull it out. Not yet. I let it sit in my pocket, let the vibration hang in the air between us, let Marcus see the small smile that played at the corner of my lips.

His pencil tapped once against the table. Twice. Then he set it down, slow and deliberate, and leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving mine.

The room felt smaller. The fluorescent lights hummed. Isaac and Tony kept talking, their voices a distant drone, but I couldn't hear them anymore. All I could hear was the beat of my own heart, steady and sure, and the weight of Marcus's gaze pressing against my skin like a promise.

I didn't read the text.

Not yet.

I let the moment stretch, let the unanswered question hang in the air between us, something unfinished and alive.

And I smiled.

I let the smile linger a beat longer, then pulled my phone from my pocket. "One sec," I murmured, pushing back from the table. The chair scraped against the linoleum. I stepped into the hallway, the door swinging shut behind me, muffling Isaac and Tony's arguing.

The corridor was dim, the lights on a timer that would kill them in another hour. I leaned against the wall, the cinder block cool through Chloe's sweater, and unlocked my phone.

Chloe's name glowed on the screen.

found someone. you remember stacy rivera from psych? she's a known slut. loves jocks. perfect distraction for derek.

A slow warmth spread through my chest. Stacy Rivera. Blonde. Loud. Flexible morals. The kind of girl who'd climb a football player like a jungle gym and never once ask if he had a girlfriend. She'd eat Derek alive, make him forget he ever looked my direction hopefully.

I typed back fast, my thumb moving before I'd fully finished the thought.

perfect. make it happen.

I hit send and slid the phone back into my pocket, the screen dark, the hallway quiet around me. I let myself breathe for a second, let the satisfaction settle into my bones. The game was still moving. The pieces were falling exactly where I wanted them.

Then I pushed the door open and stepped back inside.

The argument hit me as soon as I crossed the threshold.

"—no, because if you integrate it that way, you're assuming the function is continuous, which it isn't—"

"It is continuous if you account for the asymptotic behavior, you just have to—"

"You're both wrong." Marcus's voice, low and quiet, cutting through the noise like a blade. "The limit… the limit approaches from the left. You're forgetting the singularity."

I slid back into my seat, let my knee brush against his as I settled. The contact was brief, barely a whisper of denim against denim, but I felt him tense, felt the way his breath hitched for half a second before he forced it even.

"Arguing about math?" I asked, my voice light.

"Always," Isaac groaned, running a hand over his face. His chubby frame sagged against the table, the motion sending a pencil rolling toward the edge. "And if we solve it Tony's way, we're gonna be here until midnight. Guess I'm dying alone tonight."

I tilted my head, let my hair fall over one shoulder. "Dying alone? That's a little dramatic, isn't it?"

"He's not wrong," Tony said, tossing his pencil onto the table with a clatter. The graphite snapped against the wood, leaving a dark smear. "Who's gonna date a guy who spends his Friday nights doing differential equations?"

"Someone smart," I said, and I meant it more than they probably realized. "Someone who appreciates a brain that works."

Isaac snorted. "Right. The line forms to the left."

I let the silence breathe for a second, let it stretch and settle, a quiet space I could fill with the question I'd been circling since I sat down. Then I leaned forward, my elbows on the table, my eyes moving between them.

"So," I said, my voice soft, almost casual. "None of you are seeing anyone?"

The silence that followed was different. Heavier. The kind of quiet that holds a room hostage.

Isaac laughed first. A sad, hollow sound that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Lila. Look at me." He gestured at himself — the oversized t-shirt, the round frame, the softness around his edges. "I'm built like a bear who raided a dumpster. Girls don't exactly line up."

"I talk too much," Tony added, pulling at the collar of his shirt. "And I'm built like a scarecrow. I'm literally just limbs and glasses. I'm the kind of guy girls describe as 'really nice' right before they introduce me to their friends."

They were joking. I could hear it in their voices, the practiced rhythm of self-deprecation worn smooth by repetition. But there was a truth underneath it, a soft, wounded thing they covered with humor because it was easier than admitting it hurt.

"Stop." The word came out sharper than I intended. The table went quiet. Isaac's eyes widened. "You're both smart. You're funny. You're good. Anyone would be lucky to date you."

Isaac blinked. Tony's mouth fell open, the pencil still in his hand, frozen mid-twirl.

"I mean it," I said, and I leaned forward, let my voice drop into something softer, something real. "You're gonna make some girls really happy one day. The kind of happy that lasts."

For a second, neither of them spoke. The fluorescent light hummed. The dry-erase markers smelled sharp and chemical, the scent of late nights and hard work.

Tony recovered first. "Easy for you to say," he muttered, but there was a grin tugging at his mouth now, reluctant and real. "You're Lila Moretti."

I opened my mouth to deflect, to turn it back into a joke, but Isaac was faster.

The air shifted. I felt it, the way you feel a barometer drop before a storm.

"Speaking of which…" Isaac's grin turned sly, a glint of mischief in his eyes that I hadn't seen before.

"Yeah," Tony said, catching on, his grin matching Isaac's. He set down the broken pencil and turned toward me, propping his chin on his hand. "What about you, Lila? You're literally the most popular girl in school. I've seen the way guys look at you."

Isaac nodded, leaning forward. "They look at you like you're a meal they've been waiting their whole lives for."

My stomach tightened. The room felt smaller, the walls pressing in, the air thickening with the weight of their question.

"So," Tony said, his voice light but his eyes sharp. "Are you dating anyone?"

I could feel Marcus beside me. The heat of him. The stillness. The way he'd gone completely quiet, his pencil frozen mid-tap, his breath held like he was underwater.

I could have lied. I could have said Derek's name, let the rumor spread, let Marcus think I was taken. I could have laughed it off, called it complicated, left the door open and the answer vague.

But I didn't.

I let the silence stretch. Let it breathe. Let it become its own answer.

"No." The word came out slow, deliberate, my eyes fixed on the table in front of me. "No one interesting."

The word hung in the air. Interesting.

Isaac let out a low whistle. "Ouch. Cold."

I lifted my head, let my gaze drift — slow, unhurried — until it landed on Marcus. His hazel eyes were fixed on me, wide and unreadable, a storm of questions he didn't dare voice.

"I'm not cold," I said, my voice quiet, meant for him even if the words were aimed at the room. "I'm just waiting for the right challenge."

Marcus's throat worked. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing, his fingers tightening on the pencil until the knuckles went white. I saw the exact moment the meaning landed — the implication that he, the impossible equation, the stuttering giant in the baggy hoodie, was the one I was trying to solve.

His ears went red. The color spread to his cheeks, slow and helpless, and he dropped his gaze to the table, his breath shallow and uneven.

I let myself enjoy it for a second. Just a second.

Then I picked up the comic from where it lay between us, the silver foil catching the fluorescent light, and held it out to him.

"You still haven't told me what you think of the line work," I said, my voice light again, a lifeline back to safe ground.

He reached for it. His fingers brushed mine as he took the cover, a spark that ran up my arm and settled somewhere deep in my chest. His voice was rough when he spoke, the words coming slow and careful.

"The… the line work is clean. But the shadowing on the face is wrong." He traced the edge of the character's jaw with his thumb. "The light source is inconsistent. It's coming from above right, but the shadows under the chin suggest a lower source."

I smiled. "I knew you'd notice that."

He looked up at me, his eyes searching my face like he was trying to solve me the way I was trying to solve him.

Under the table, I let my hand rest on my knee, palm up. An invitation. A question.

He didn't take it. Not yet.

But I saw his eyes flick down, just for a second. Saw the recognition. Saw the way his breath caught and held.

Isaac was talking again, something about the math competition, about practice times, about the bus schedule for regionals. Tony was responding, fast and enthusiastic, the argument forgotten.

I didn't hear any of it.

I just watched Marcus's hand, hovered above the comic, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his skin even without touching.

Close enough that it was almost a yes.

The moment stretched like taffy, pulled thin and warm between us. I kept my hand on my knee, palm up, the invitation sitting there like an open door. Marcus's eyes flicked down to it again — I caught the movement, the brief drop of his gaze — and then away, back to the comic, his fingers still tracing the silver foil like it was the only thing keeping him anchored.

I didn't pull my hand back. I let it stay. Let it be a question he could answer whenever he was ready.

The fluorescent light hummed above us. Somewhere down the hall, a door clicked shut, and the sound echoed through the empty corridor, muffled and distant.

Isaac cleared his throat. "So, uh." He scratched the back of his neck, his chubby fingers disappearing into the collar of his oversized t-shirt. "I can't help but notice something."

I turned my head toward him, slow and unhurried, my hand still resting on my knee. "What's that?"

"Your jacket." Isaac's eyes flicked down to my shoulders, to the borrowed sweater that hung past my thighs. "You were wearing Derek's letterman jacket earlier. I saw you in the courtyard."

The room went quiet. Tony's pencil stopped mid-twirl. Marcus's fingers froze on the edge of the comic.

I felt the shift in the air, the way the temperature dropped a degree, the way Marcus's breathing went shallow beside me.

"I returned it," I said, my voice light, easy. "Brought it back to him at practice."

Isaac's eyebrows rose. "You walked all the way to the football field to give him back a jacket?"

"He let me borrow it. It was the polite thing to do."

Tony snorted. "Since when does Lila Moretti do the polite thing?"

I let my smile widen, let it turn sharp at the edges. "I can be polite when I want to be."

"Yeah, but." Isaac leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his eyes narrowing with a curiosity that made my stomach tighten. "What happened when you gave it back?"

I could feel Marcus beside me. The stillness of him. The way he'd gone completely frozen, his hands flat on the comic, his breath held like he was waiting for a verdict.

I kept my face smooth, my voice even. "What do you mean, what happened?"

"I mean." Isaac spread his hands. "Derek's been trying to get your attention since freshman year. You walk up to him at practice, alone, wearing a borrowed jacket, and you just... hand it back and walk away?"

"Pretty much."

Tony set down his pencil. "That's not what I heard."

My heart skipped a beat. Just one. A tiny stumble in the rhythm of my chest. "What did you hear?"

Tony glanced at Isaac, a look that passed between them like a baton in a relay. Then he turned back to me, his voice careful, measured. "Word travels fast around here. Some of the guys were talking after practice. Said you kissed him."

The word landed like a stone in still water.

Beside me, Marcus's hands curled into fists. The comic's edge crumpled under his grip — just a millimeter, just enough to crease the silver foil.

I saw it. I saw everything. The way his jaw tightened. The way his throat worked as he swallowed. The way his eyes stayed fixed on the table, unblinking, like he was afraid of what he'd see if he looked up.

"It wasn't a kiss," I said, and my voice came out flatter than I intended. "I touched my lips to his cheek. That's not the same thing."

Isaac's eyebrows shot up. "You touched your lips to his cheek?"

"It was a thank you. A very brief, very meaningless thank you."

"And the guys saw it." Tony's voice was neutral, but his eyes were sharp. "Which means the entire football team saw it. Which means by tomorrow morning, the entire campus will have heard that Lila Moretti kissed Derek Russo."

I let out a breath. Slow. Controlled. "I know what I'm doing."

"Do you?" Isaac's voice was softer now, less teasing, more genuine. "Because Marcus—"

"Isaac." Marcus's voice cut through the air like a blade. Low. Rough. The single word carrying a weight that silenced the room.

I turned to look at him. He was still staring at the table, his hands white-knuckled on the edges of the comic, his shoulders drawn up toward his ears. The tension in his frame was visible even through the baggy hoodie, a coiled spring ready to snap.

"It's fine," he said, and his voice cracked on the second word. He cleared his throat. Tried again. "She can. She can kiss whoever she wants."

The words hit me like a slap. Cold. Final. A door closing in my face.

I opened my mouth to respond, to say something that would fix it, but Isaac spoke first.

"So, what, you just walked up to Derek, gave him his jacket, pecked him on the cheek, and left?" He shook his head, a slow, disbelieving motion. "And then you came straight here?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I'm not interested in Derek," I said, my voice soft, almost quiet. "I never have been."

Marcus's head lifted. Slowly, like he was surfacing from deep water, his hazel eyes meeting mine for the first time since Isaac had brought up the jacket.

I held his gaze. Let him see the truth in my face. Let him see that I meant every word.

"Then why the kiss?" Tony asked, his voice genuinely confused.

I let the question hang for a beat, let the silence do its work. Then I smiled — wide and warm, the kind of smile that made people lean in without knowing why.

"Because I wanted to thank Derek for the jacket." I let my gaze move between the three of them, slow and deliberate. "And because if any of you had been generous enough to lend me your jacket, I would've kissed you on the cheek too."

The silence that followed was beautiful.

Isaac's face went through four distinct phases in the space of two seconds — confusion, recognition, disbelief, and a deep, spreading crimson that started at his ears and worked its way down to his collar. His mouth opened and closed, no sound coming out, like a fish that had been abruptly removed from water.

Tony dropped his pencil. Actually dropped it. It hit the table, rolled off the edge, and clattered to the floor, and he didn't even look at it. His eyes were fixed on me, wide and unblinking, his cheeks staining red above the collar of his shirt.

"You —" Isaac's voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. "You would've —"

"Kissed you on the cheek," I said, keeping my voice light, my expression innocent. "Yes. As a thank you. For being kind to me."

Tony made a sound. It wasn't quite a word. It was somewhere between a laugh and a choke, the noise of a man whose brain had short-circuited and was desperately trying to reboot.

"I mean it." I leaned forward, let my elbows rest on the table, let my voice drop into something softer. "You guys have been so nice to me. You let me sit with you. You talk to me about comics. You don't treat me like I'm just —" I gestured vaguely, "— some popular girl who doesn't belong. You make me feel like I belong."

The words were true. They were also calculated, every syllable aimed at the softest parts of their hearts, and I felt a twinge of something that might've been guilt if I'd let myself sit with it long enough. I didn't.

"Lila." Isaac's voice was rough. He blinked rapidly, his chubby fingers twisting together on the table. "That's — I mean — you don't have to —"

"I know I don't have to." I smiled at him, soft and sincere. "I want to."

Tony finally bent down to pick up his pencil. When he straightened, his face was still red, but there was a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, reluctant and real. "So you're saying if I give you my jacket right now —"

"I'd kiss you on the cheek." I didn't let him finish. "Absolutely."

He sputtered. Actually sputtered, the sound escaping his throat before he could stop it. "I — but — you —"

"She's messing with us," Isaac said, but his voice was high and thin, and he couldn't stop smiling. "She's totally messing with us."

"I'm not messing with you." I kept my face serious, my eyes wide. "I'm completely sincere. If you lent me your jacket, I'd kiss you. It's only fair."

"It's not fair at all!" Tony's voice broke on the last word, pitching up into something almost comic. "That's not how jacket lending works!"

"It does now." I shrugged, the motion easy, the borrowed sweater shifting on my shoulders. "New rule. I just made it."

Isaac buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with laughter that he was trying — and failing — to suppress. "Oh my god. Oh my god."

Tony was still sputtering, his hands gesturing wildly as he tried to form a coherent sentence. "But — I would've — if I'd known — I have a jacket in my locker —"

"You do?" I tilted my head, let my hair fall over one shoulder. "Go get it."

He froze. His eyes went wide. "Really?"

I laughed. A real laugh, the sound surprising me as it left my throat. "No. Not right now. I'm not going to make you walk all the way to your locker just for a cheek kiss."

Tony deflated, but the grin stayed on his face. "Man. You can't just dangle that and pull it away."

"I'm not dangling anything. I'm making a point." I turned to Isaac, who had lifted his head from his hands, his face still flushed. "You guys are worth a cheek kiss. Both of you. If Derek got one for a jacket he let me borrow for twenty minutes, you deserve one for being genuinely good to me for days."

Isaac's eyes softened. The laughter faded from his face, replaced by something quieter, something almost vulnerable. "You really mean that?"

"I really do."

He looked down at the table, his fingers tracing a pattern on the wood. "I don't... people don't usually..." He trailed off, shook his head. "Never mind."

"No." I reached across the table, let my fingers brush his wrist — brief, light, a touch that lasted less than a second. "Say it."

He looked up at me, his eyes searching my face like he was trying to find the catch, the trick, the moment I'd pull the rug out from under him. I held his gaze, let him see the sincerity I'd decided to wear like armor tonight.

"People don't usually see me," he said, his voice quiet. "Like, actually see me. They look through me. Or they look at me and see a fat guy who likes comic books and they decide they already know everything about me."

The words landed in my chest, sharp and unexpected. I thought of Pearl. Thought of the way she'd draped herself over Marcus, the way she'd made Isaac and Tony feel like obstacles instead of people. The way she'd treated them like furniture in the room where she wanted to seduce the man of her dreams.

"That's their loss." I said it simply, like it was fact, because it was. "You're smart. You're funny. You're loyal. You're the kind of friend that people spend their whole lives looking for."

Isaac blinked rapidly, his eyes suddenly bright. He looked away, coughed into his fist, and when he looked back, the vulnerability was tucked away, replaced by a shaky grin. "Okay. That's — okay. That's enough sincerity for one night."

I laughed. "Fair enough."

Tony was still watching me, his head tilted, his expression thoughtful. "You know, you're not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know. The popular girl thing. The way everyone talks about you." He shrugged, his gangly shoulders rising and falling under his shirt. "I figured you'd be fake. Like, all charm on the surface and nothing underneath."

"And now?"

"Now I think you're scary smart and you know exactly what you're doing." He grinned, the expression lopsided and genuine. "But not in a bad way. In a 'I'm glad you're on our side' way."

I felt the warmth of his words settle into my chest, unexpected and welcome. "I'm definitely on your side."

"Good." Tony picked up his pencil, twirled it between his fingers. "Because we could use someone like you. Pearl was —" He stopped, glanced at Marcus, who had been silent throughout the entire exchange. "Sorry, man. I don't want to bring her up."

Marcus shook his head. A small, tight motion. "It's fine." His voice was low, careful. "She's not... she's not here anymore."

I turned to look at him fully. He was still holding the comic, his fingers pressed flat against the silver foil, his hazel eyes fixed on some distant point on the table. The tension was back in his shoulders, the coil winding tight again.

"Marcus."

He didn't look up.

I let my hand drift across the table, slow and deliberate, until my fingers rested on the edge of the comic, close to his but not touching. "Hey."

His jaw tightened. His throat worked as he swallowed. Then, slowly, he lifted his head and met my eyes.

The weight in his gaze hit me like a physical thing. There was something raw there, something unguarded, a vulnerability that made my chest ache in a way I hadn't expected. He wasn't hiding from me. He was letting me see it — the confusion, the hope, the fear that he was reading this all wrong.

"I meant what I said," I said, my voice soft, meant only for him. "Every word."

He held my gaze for a long moment. The fluorescent light hummed above us. Somewhere in the building, a door clicked shut, the sound muffled and distant.

Then his hand moved.

Slow. Uncertain. His fingers brushed against mine — just the barest contact, the whisper of skin against skin. He pulled back almost immediately, like he'd touched something hot, but the damage was done. The spark had jumped the gap between us, and I felt it settle into my bones like heat.

I didn't push. Didn't chase his hand. I let mine stay where it was, resting on the edge of the comic, an open door he could walk through when he was ready.

"So." Isaac's voice cut through the moment, blessedly oblivious. "The competition. Three weeks. We've got a real shot this year."

I turned to him, letting the shift be natural, letting Marcus have a moment to breathe. "Tell me more. I want to know everything about it."

Isaac's face lit up. He launched into an explanation — the structure of the competition, the rounds, the scoring system, the teams they'd be facing. Tony jumped in, adding details, correcting Isaac's exaggerations, their voices overlapping in a familiar rhythm that spoke of years of friendship.

I listened. Nodded at the right moments. Asked questions that made them light up.

But my awareness stayed fixed on the space beside me. On the warmth of Marcus's presence. On the ghost of his fingers against mine, still tingling, still real.

The conversation flowed around us, easy and warm, and I let myself sink into it. Let myself pretend, just for a moment, that this was my place. That this table, these boys, this quiet room full of equations and comic books — this was where I belonged.

And maybe, if I played this right, it would be.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it.

The moment was too good to break.