The cafeteria air hit her like a wall — steam and grease and the low roar of a hundred conversations layered into a single note. She spotted him at the far end, near the windows where the light came in gray through smudged glass, and he was laughing. Actually laughing, his shoulders shaking, one hand half-covering his mouth like he was embarrassed by the sound coming out of him. Something in her chest went tight.

She was moving before she decided to. Her hips swayed through the maze of tables, a rhythm she'd never had to think about, her thin white crop top clinging to her ribs with every step. She felt the eyes on her — they were always on her — and she ignored them the way she ignored the chill of the air against her skin, the way her nipples hardened under the fabric, visible to anyone who cared to look. She didn't care who looked. She cared about one person.

His friend — the one with the glasses and the acne scars — saw her first. His mouth kept moving for a half-second before his brain caught up, and then he went still, his eyes tracking her approach like she was something that might bite. The other two followed his gaze. One by one, they stopped talking.

He didn't notice. He was still mid-sentence, gesturing with the hand that wasn't holding his sandwich, his voice low and earnest about something she couldn't hear. She watched his mouth form words, watched the way his eyebrows moved when he made a point, and her stomach flipped.

The empty chair was across from him. She pulled it out — the legs scraped against the tile, a sound that cut through the cafeteria noise like a knife — and she sat down. The ripped denim of her jeans tightened across her thighs as she leaned forward on her elbows. The fabric strained at the seams, the holes in the knees gaping wider, the ribs cut into the back of the jeans pressing against the curve of her ass as she settled into the seat.

His friends were silent. The table had gone so quiet she could hear the fluorescent lights humming overhead.

He looked up from his sandwich.

Her palms went damp. She pressed them flat against the plastic tabletop, felt the faint stickiness of old spills ground into the surface, and tried to remember how to breathe. His eyes — dark, framed by that scar that ran through his left eyebrow, the one she'd spent weeks wondering about — met hers, and for a second she forgot every word she'd ever known.

"I'm Tina," she said, and her voice came out rougher than she meant, almost a whisper, like she'd been running.

He blinked. Once. Twice. His jaw worked, but nothing came out.

One of his friends made a sound — a strangled cough that might have been a laugh — and she ignored it the same way she ignored the way her heart was slamming against her ribs, the way her skin felt too hot, the way she wanted to look away and couldn't.

He swallowed. She watched his throat move. Watched the way his Adam's apple bobbed, the way his hand tightened on the sandwich before he set it down slowly, carefully, like he was buying time.

"I—" He stopped. His face flushed, a slow red creeping up his neck, and something in her chest cracked open. "I'm Tyler."

His voice was soft. Rougher than she expected. And the stutter — she'd heard it before, in the hallways, in the library, in the moments when he thought no one was listening — made her want to reach across the table and take his hand.

She didn't. She stayed where she was, elbows on the table, leaning forward, aware of how the crop top gaped away from her ribs, aware of how much she was showing, aware of how his eyes kept flicking down and then away, like he was trying not to look.

"You're in my history class," she said. "Second row. By the window."

He nodded. A small, jerky motion. "Yeah. I— I sit there."

"I know." She let that hang. Let him sit in the weight of it. "I've been watching you."

The silence that followed was so thick she could have wrapped herself in it. His friends were exchanging glances now, a whole conversation happening in eyebrow raises and pressed lips, but she didn't look at them. She only looked at him. At the way his hand trembled slightly when he reached for his soda. At the way he took a sip like he needed something to do with his mouth.

"Why?" he asked, and the word came out steadier than she expected. He set the soda down and met her eyes, and there was something there — not suspicion, not fear, just confusion. Genuine confusion, like the idea that someone like her might notice someone like him didn't compute.

She didn't have an answer that made sense. Not one she could say out loud. So she told the truth instead.

"I don't know." She smiled, and it felt different on her face than her usual smile — smaller, softer, less like armor. "I just... saw you. And I couldn't stop looking."

His cheeks darkened again. He looked down at his sandwich, then back up at her, and something shifted in his expression. Not understanding — not yet — but the beginning of it. The crack in the door.

"You want my sandwich?" he asked, and the joke came out so dry, so unexpected, that she laughed before she could stop herself.

"No." She shook her head, still smiling. "I want to know your name. Which I got. So now I want to know what you're doing after class."

He stared at her. His friends stared at her. The one with the glasses made another strangled sound, and she finally glanced at him — just a flicker of her eyes, just enough to register his stunned expression — before turning back to Tyler.

"I—" Tyler stopped. Started again. "I have a lab. Physics."

"What time does it end?"

"Four."

"Good." She stood up, the chair scraping back, and she felt his eyes on her — on the curve of her hip, on the thin fabric of her crop top, on the way her jeans rode low on her waist. She let him look. She wanted him to look. "I'll find you."

She turned and walked away, and she didn't look back, because if she looked back she might lose her nerve, might see that confusion still on his face, might realize she had no idea what she was doing. Her heart was pounding. Her hands were shaking. She'd never felt less like the girl everyone thought she was.

And she'd never felt more alive.

Later that day, when the last bell had rung and the hallways were thinning out, she found him. The courtyard behind the science building, where the old oak trees cast long shadows across cracked pavement. She'd been looking for him since her last class ended—not consciously, not planning, but her feet had carried her this way, and there he was.

Three of them. Jocks. The kind who wore letter jackets and moved like they owned every inch of campus. They had him backed against the brick wall, one of them leaning in close, a grin on his face that made something cold settle in her stomach.

"Say it again, Vokov." The one in the middle—blond, broad-shouldered, a face designed for cruelty—mocked Tyler's stutter, drawing out the first syllable in an exaggerated stammer. "C-c-come on. Say it again. It's funny."

Tyler's jaw was tight. His hands hung at his sides, loose fists that he didn't raise. He was taller than all of them, she realized—taller than she'd noticed before, broad under his baggy hoodie. But he stood like a man trying to make himself small, shoulders curved inward, eyes fixed on the ground.

"I said—" The jock stepped closer. "You gonna let me talk, or you gonna keep stuttering like a—"

"Hey."

The word came out of her before she knew she was going to speak. It cut through the air like a blade, sharp and cold, and all three of them turned.

She was already walking. Her hips swayed with each step, her thin white crop top catching the afternoon light, the outline of her nipples visible beneath the fabric. She felt the weight of their stares shift from Tyler to her, felt the way the blond one's grin widened as he took her in.

"Well, well, well." He straightened, turning to face her fully. His eyes dropped to her chest, lingered, then dragged up to her face. "Look who decided to join us."

She didn't stop until she was standing between him and Tyler. She felt Tyler's presence behind her—the heat of him, the quiet—and she planted her feet, her hands on her hips, the ripped denim pulling tight across her thighs.

"Back off," she said. Her voice was steady. Harder than she'd meant it, but not shaking. Not yet.

The blond one laughed. "Or what?" He gestured at Tyler. "You his girlfriend now? Didn't know the stutter got that far."

His friends snickered. Their eyes were on her chest again, the way the crop top hung loose from her ribs, the way her breasts moved with each breath. She could feel their gazes like a physical thing—sticky, invasive—and she wanted to cross her arms, to cover herself, but she didn't. She held her ground, her heart hammering against her ribs, and she met the blond one's eyes.

"I said back off." She took a step forward. Just one. It brought her closer to him, close enough to see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. "You want to say something to him, you say it to me."

The silence stretched. The second jock—shorter, stockier, with a buzz cut—glanced at the blond one, uncertainty flickering across his face. The third one just stared at her tits, his mouth slightly open.

"Tina Star." The blond one said her name like he was tasting it. "Yeah, I've heard of you. You don't hang out with guys like him." He jerked his thumb at Tyler. "What, you slumming it? Tired of guys who can actually talk?"

Something hot and sharp flared in her chest. She didn't think. She just moved—another step, close enough that she could smell the cheap cologne on his skin, and she looked up at him with all the contempt she could muster.

"You're boring me," she said. "And you're blocking my view. Take your friends and go find someone who gives a shit what you think."

His eyes narrowed. For a second, she thought he might push her, might do something that would force her to back down. But then he glanced past her, at Tyler, and something in his expression shifted—not respect, not fear, but calculation. Like he was weighing the odds, deciding if the fight was worth it.

He stepped back. Held up his hands. "Fine. Keep the freak. He's not worth our time anyway."

He turned, and his friends followed, the stocky one shooting her a lingering look before they disappeared around the corner of the building.

The silence that settled was thick and strange. She stood there, her heart pounding, her hands trembling at her sides, and she didn't move until she was sure they were gone. Then she turned around.

Tyler was still against the wall. His hoodie had ridden up slightly, revealing a strip of pale skin above his jeans. His hands were still in loose fists, but his knuckles had gone white. He was looking at her with an expression she couldn't read—not gratitude, not surprise. Something else. Something raw.

"Are you okay?" she asked. Her voice came out softer than she'd intended, almost a whisper.

He swallowed. His throat moved, and she watched the way his Adam's apple bobbed, the way his breath came in shallow pulls. "You didn't—" He stopped. Pressed his lips together. Started again. "You didn't have to do that."

"I know." She took a step closer. Then another. She was close enough now to see the way his eyes searched her face, looking for something she wasn't sure she had. "I wanted to."

He shook his head, a small, jerky motion. "They're gonna— they're gonna talk. About you. About—" He gestured vaguely at her, at the crop top, at the way she was standing so close to him. "You don't want—"

"I don't care what they say." She reached out before she could stop herself, her fingers brushing the sleeve of his hoodie. The fabric was soft and warm. "I care if you're okay."

He went still. His eyes dropped to her hand on his arm, then back up to her face. He looked… lost. Like he didn't know what to do with someone standing this close, someone touching him like he mattered.

"I'm fine," he said. His voice cracked on the last word, and he flushed, looking away.

She was still touching him. Her fingers on his sleeve, light as a breath, and he hadn't pulled away. He hadn't moved at all, actually—just stood there against the brick wall, his chest rising and falling in shallow waves, his eyes fixed on some point past her shoulder like he was trying to disappear into the mortar.

"Tyler." She said his name softly, testing it. It felt good in her mouth. Solid. "I'm Tina."

He blinked. His gaze dragged back to her face, slow and reluctant, and she watched the way his throat worked when he swallowed. "I— I know." Another swallow. "Everyone knows."

Her heart did something strange—a flutter, a twist, like a bird trying to take flight in her chest. She'd heard that before, usually from guys who said it like an accusation, like her reputation was something they could hold against her. But the way he said it was different. Matter-of-fact. Like he was stating the color of the sky.

"Yeah?" She tilted her head, letting a small smile curve her lips. "And what do they say?"

He flushed. The color crept up his neck, staining his cheeks, and he looked away again. "That you're—" He stopped. Pressed his lips together. "That you're the prettiest girl on campus."

The words landed somewhere soft and unexpected, right behind her ribs. She'd heard that before too, a hundred times, a thousand, from guys who said it like a line, like a transaction. But from him, with his stutter and his averted eyes and the way his hands were still in those loose fists at his sides—it hit different. It hit true.

"They say that, huh." She stepped closer, close enough that the toes of her sneakers almost touched his. "What do you say?"

He looked at her then. Really looked, for the first time since she'd sat down at his table. His eyes were brown, she realized—not the flat brown of coffee, but warm, with flecks of gold in the afternoon light. They traced her face like he was memorizing it, and she felt her breath catch in her throat.

"I—" He stopped. Started again. "I think you're—"

A group of students pushed past them, laughing, and the moment shattered. Tyler stepped back, putting distance between them, and she felt the loss of his proximity like a physical thing—cold air rushing in where his warmth had been.

"I should—" He gestured vaguely at the cafeteria doors. "My friends. They're probably—"

"Wait." The word came out before she could stop it, and she reached out again, her hand catching his wrist. His skin was warm. She felt the pulse jump under her fingertips. "I wanted to ask you something."

He froze. His eyes dropped to her hand on his wrist, then back up to her face. "What?"

She took a breath. This was the part she'd been dreading, the part that made her palms go damp and her stomach knot. She was Tina Star. She didn't ask for help. She didn't need it. But she'd looked at his schedule once, weeks ago, when she'd first noticed him—noticed the way he moved through the world like he was trying not to be seen, the way he hunched over his textbooks in the library, the way his brow furrowed when he was concentrating, and she'd seen the grades. Straight A's. Every single one.

"I need a tutor," she said, and the words felt strange on her tongue, foreign and heavy. "I'm— I'm failing calculus. And I heard you're good at that stuff."

His eyes widened. Just a fraction, but she saw it. "You— you want me to tutor you?"

"Yeah." She let go of his wrist, suddenly self-conscious, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I mean, if you're not busy. If you have time. I know you're probably—"

"I have time." The words came out fast, almost tripping over each other, and he flushed again. "I mean— yeah. I could— I could help."

Something warm bloomed in her chest. She smiled, and it felt different from the smiles she gave everyone else—softer, more real. "Really?"

He nodded, a jerky motion. "Yeah. I— I tutor at the library. Tuesdays and Thursdays. After classes."

"Perfect." She was beaming now, and she couldn't stop it. "I'll find you there."

He nodded again, and then he was moving, backing away with that same hunched posture, his hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie. She watched him go, watched the way his shoulders curved inward, the way he avoided eye contact with everyone he passed.

She stood there for a long moment, the afternoon light warm on her skin, her heart still doing that strange flutter thing in her chest. She'd done it. She'd talked to him. And he'd said yes.

Two days. She had two days to figure out what she was going to wear.