He reads it, his grin softening into something that makes my stomach flip. He doesn’t write back this time—just mouths the words slowly, so I don’t miss them:
Can’t wait.
Max catches it, of course. “God, you two are disgusting,” he mutters, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips as he says it.
•*?? . ??? ??.•*??
As Vincent walks me toward my next class, I’m scrolling through songs on my MP3 player, half-paying attention to where I’m going so I don’t crash into anyone. When I glance up, I immediately lock eyes with Maya Bailey—and the glare she shoots me is so sharp it could cut glass. If looks could kill, I’d be six feet under.
I lean closer to Vincent, lowering my voice. “Don’t tell me she’s still mad about Tanner’s party. That was, like, a month ago. I was just messing around!”
Vincent shrugs, sliding his arm casually but firmly around my shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Don’t ask me. I haven’t said a single word to her since that night. And why should I, when she called you a slut? She can try talking to me if she wants, but she won’t like how that goes.”
I groan dramatically, throwing my head back. “Great. I’ve got the wrath of your entire fan club now? You saw her face, right? It looked like she was ready to shove me in a locker.”
He chuckles softly, giving my shoulder a little squeeze. “Relax. She’s not going to kill you.” Then, after a beat, his eyes flick down to mine, playful but with an edge. “Honestly? I think she’s mad because you distracted me from her that night.”
That makes me stop dead in the middle of the hallway. My arms cross over my chest, and I raise a brow at him. “Distracted you? Vincent, I saw you yawning at least three times before I even showed up. Don’t pin that on me. You were about to fall asleep. And anyway—”
His grin widens, boyish and unapologetic. He holds his hands up like he’s surrendering. “Hey! I didn’t say anything. I even thanked you for saving me from my nonexistent date.”
I can’t help it—a laugh bursts out of me, and I loop my arm through his again. “Nonexistent date. Exactly. Try telling Maya that.”
“The next time she glares at you, just glare right back,” he says easily. Then his smirk turns wicked. “Or, you know, do what Steven does and give her the middle finger every time you see her.”
“But you only allow Steven three middle fingers a day,” I shoot back instantly.
“You can do it as many times as you want.” He grins, eyes glittering. “Just don’t tell Steve.”
I snort, trying not to smile too wide but failing. “Okay.”
He bumps his shoulder against mine. “Good girl. Don’t let her get to you. You’re not what she said, and you know it. You’re the sun, Nova. Let her stay mad in the dark if she wants.”
I tilt my head up at him, the corners of my mouth softening despite myself. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”
He flashes me a crooked grin. “Yeah. But I’m your ridiculous.”
This time, my smile wins. I press a quick hug into his side as we start walking again, his arm still draped over my shoulders like a quiet shield against the world.
We keep walking, his shoulder brushing mine. Then, out of nowhere, he leans in. “So... what if we skipped your class?”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“The music room’s empty. I technically should be in study hall right now, but... I could sign in for the hour, grab my guitar, and we could, I don’t know, play something. Just us.”
My eyes light up instantly. “Are you serious? You’re offering me front-row tickets to the Vincent Cooper Show? You’re insane if you think I’m saying no.”
Before he can change his mind, I grab his hand and drag him down the hallway. He stumbles a little, laughing as he tries to keep up with me. By the time we get to the music room, I’m practically vibrating.
He unlocks the door, pokes his head in, and grins. “Empty. Perfect.”
He strides in, grabs the sign-in sheet from the teacher’s desk, and scribbles his name down.
Meanwhile, I slip inside and shut the door, my heart beating fast with the thrill of doing something we’re absolutely not supposed to.
His guitar case is still where he left it this morning, propped against the wall. He grabs it, sets it on a chair, and carefully pulls out his instrument. Just the way his hands move—steady, practiced, like he was born doing this—makes me swallow hard. I don’t think he even realizes how good he is. Every time he plays, it feels like he pours pieces of himself into the strings.
He sits down, looking up at me with that signature smirk. “So, Miss Supernova, what are we playing today?”
