Tristan gasped dramatically. “Excuse me, I have layers.”
Leo tilted his head at me. “And what makes you think you’re the brain?”
“Because I read the assignment. You were too busy thinking up your next Instagram caption.”
He barked a laugh, full and unbothered. “Fine. I’ll let you take the lead.”
“Gee, thanks,” I muttered. “Chivalry’s not dead after all.”
Leo leaned closer then, elbow on the desk, that crooked grin playing on his lips again. “Don’t get cocky, Jade. You’re smart, I’ll give you that. But you’re not really my type.”
The smile dropped from my face before I could catch it.
Tristan stopped laughing.
Leo just looked at me like he hadn’t said anything wrong at all.
I swallowed. “Good. Because being someone’s ‘type’ isn’t on my college resume.”
He looked at me for a beat longer than necessary.
I didn’t look away.
And even though it stung—what he said—I refused to show it. Because I knew what he was doing. The push and pull. The interest and the insult. He was keeping control.
He just didn’t realize I was learning the game too.
The bell rang like a fire alarm.
I was up before the echo finished bouncing off the stone walls, stuffing my laptop into my bag so fast I almost zipped it closed on the charging cord. I didn’t wait for Leo to say another word. Didn’t glance at Tristan. I practically launched myself toward the door.
Every step away from that desk felt like peeling off a layer of heat. Embarrassment. Frustration. That sharp burn in my chest I didn’t want to name.
He wasn’t my type either. Arrogant, smug, born with a silver Rolex on his wrist and a killer smile that meant trouble. So why did that one sentence feel like a slap I didn’t see coming?
You’re not really mytype.
I took the long way out of the building, darting down a side hallway like I was avoiding security cameras. Royal Oaks Prep was a maze of polished stone and centuries-old prestige, but I’d already learned where the shadows were. Where the back exits led to faculty courtyards and the little cobblestone alley between the science lab and the fencing gym.
I kept my head down, backpack tight against my shoulders, heart thudding like I’d just failed something vital.
By the time I reached the back quad, my breathing was shallow and fast, like I’d just run a mile—but it wasn’t the physical sprint.
It was the emotional one.
I cut across the lawn, past the sculpture garden where girls posed for aesthetic reels and future alumni begged their names to be remembered in bronze. Slipped between the manicured hedges like a fugitive.
I made it to the iron gates without seeing him again.
Small miracle.
From there, it was two crosswalks, a quick slide through a chain-link gap the campus landscapers clearly ignored, and a scramble up the narrow dirt path behind the maintenance shed.
That’s where I’d stashed it—my escape pod.
The trusty beach cruiser with rusting handlebars, faded teal paint, and a squeaky brake that made me feel like I was riding a time machine straight out of a coming-of-age indie flick.
But it was mine.
