“Well then,” he says, reaching for his coffee, “share it with your friends. Sam and Aubrey.”
“They don’t really…” I trail off, fork hovering midair.
What am I supposed to say? That they’re happy. That they’re wrapped up in their boyfriends, leaning in close, whispering, laughing, and touching hands like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. That for weeks now I’ve felt like a spare chair dragged up to a table that already seems crowded.
“Everything okay, Button?” he asks, without looking up from the stove.
“Yeah,” I say quickly. “Just busy with school.”
We settle into our usual quiet, the comfortable kind built over years of shared mornings. Dad opens the paper, flipping through pages and reading the headlines he’ll complain about later. I scroll through my phone, thumb moving on autopilot, catching the latest gossip on Insta—who’s dating whom, who broke up, and who posted what at a party I didn’t attend.
I stab a piece of bacon and chew slowly, the noise of the kitchen wrapping around me.
I shower, letting the steam fog up the mirror while I linger there a moment longer than necessary. I pull on jeans and a loose knit sweater, soft and worn in all the right places, then tie my hair up again with the scrunchie I stole from Sam two weeks ago. She hasn’t noticed. Or she has and doesn’t care.
I grab my backpack and my phone, keys jingling in my hand. Dad’s already at the sink, rinsing dishes and humming softly.
I pause next to him, murmur, “Bye, Dad,” then lean in to kiss his cheek.
“Don’t forget your history notes,” he calls out as I head for the door. “And remember, if anyone breaks your heart, break their kneecaps.”
“Noted,” I shout back, swinging my bag over my shoulder and heading outside.
The door closes with a click behind me.
My car sits in the driveway, old but dependable, a hand-me-down that rattles when it idles. The paint is chipped, the radio only works when it feels like it, but it always starts. It always gets me where I need to go. I slide into the driver’s seat, toss my bag onto the passenger side, and turn the key. The engine coughs once, then settles.
The drive to school is quick. Just enough time for my thoughts to drift into places I don't want to acknowledge they exist.
The parking lot is already half full when I arrive, asphalt crowded with dented sedans and shiny cars purchased with parents’ guilt money. Students are everywhere, laughing too loudly, shoving each other for fun, kissing as if the world is ending and tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
I cut the engine, grab my bag, and step out into the noise. Voices overlap until they blur into a constant hum. I weave through bodies, backpacks, and clouds of perfume, dodging an almost-collision with a couple who can’t keep their hands off each other.
The moment I step inside the main building, the air shifts. Lockers slam shut. Shoes squeak against the floors. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughs in a way that creeps under my skin.
And then I see him.
Jace.
Down near the end of the hall, right where the lockers dent inward, Jace leans back with one shoulder pressed against the metal. His head is tilted downward, mouth curved into that lazy grin as he laughs at something someone says. It’s effortless. The kind of laugh that draws people in without him even trying.
His blonde hair catches the light overhead. When he lifts his head, those blue eyes flick upward—the color of deep water that appears calm until it pulls you under and leaves you gasping.
For half a second, my chest forgets how to work.
God, he’s beautiful. Not in a soft or safe way. He’s the kind of beautiful that fucks up your focus and ruins your day without even trying, that makes you forget every promise you ever made to yourself about staying smart.
I force my feet to keep moving, even as my eyes betray me and follow him a beat too long. He doesn’t look my way. Or maybe he does, and I miss it. Either way, the damage is already done.
I miss him in ways that sneak up on me when I’m not paying attention. In the quiet moments. In the spaces he used to fill without trying. I miss the way he used to look over at me in class, lazy grin tugging at his mouth, eyes warm and wicked all at once.
I miss the way we shared my food, especially when he would eat more than he should, and I would call him an asshole for it. And most of all, I miss the way he called me Bells—soft sometimes, teasing other times, always sounding like it meant more than a nickname should.
But I know what he is.
I’ve always known.
A total fuckboy. The kind of boy you don’t fall for unless you enjoy bleeding.
