Emma

I’d rather swallow a stapler than work with Tristan Gray, but here we are stapler intact, sanity not. Apparently, a student vote decided we’d be co-chairs of the prom committee.

I show up to the first meeting with a color-coded binder, a Pinterest board full of decor ideas, and a tight grip on my last nerve. Tristan shows up ten minutes late with a bag of chips, sunglasses on, and zero shame.

“You’re late,” I say, flipping a page aggressively.

He tosses his bag on the desk and sits in the chair across from me like it’s a throne. “You’re early.’’

“I’m prepared,” I snap. “We have six weeks to plan a school-wide event. That’s forty-two days. You’re already wasting one.”

He leans back, grinning like this is the most fun he’s had in years. “And yet, here you are doing all the work. Honestly, I should thank you.”

I resist the urge to throw myself at him. Instead, I throw the binder at him, and he doesn’t seem to flinch. My blood boils with anger

I step forward, close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off me. “You think this is funny? Try carrying my workload for a day.”

Tristan  grins and steps forward, close enough to smell his mint scented breath

“I’d do your job with my eyes closed,” he says, voice smooth, and way too amused for someone who just got a binder thrown at them.

“You wouldn’t last an hour,” I snap, crossing my arms so I don’t punch him. “Try chasing down a DJ who double-booked, getting the decorations approved by admin, and fixing the caterer’s vegan crisis all in one afternoon.”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Maybe if you didn’t try to control every little thing, it wouldn’t all explode.”

That does it. I take a step closer, and we’re practically nose to nose now.

“Maybe if you actually helped instead of showing up late and cracking jokes”

“Maybe if you stopped acting like you’re the only one who cares”

We both stop. Breathing hard. The tension shifts, but neither of us moves.

His eyes flick down to my lips. Just for a second. And I hate that I notice. I hate it.

 I push him away and reach for the binder I’d thrown at him. At the same time, he kneels down too. Our hands collide.

My fingers brush his, and it’s like a spark jumps between us, sharp, unwelcome, infuriatingly real. I snatch my hand back instinctively, but not fast enough.

Tristan ’s hand closes gently over mine. Firm. Warm.

I freeze.

The air between us is heavy again, different this time. Not angry. Not exactly. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, slow, like he’s testing something. Or daring me to.

Heat floods my face. No, no, absolutely not. I look away, trying to shake it off, trying to pretend that my cheeks aren’t on fire. “Don’t,” I mutter, yanking my hand free.

But I don’t stand up. Neither does he.

We’re still too close. Still staring. Still pretending we’re not both feeling something we absolutely shouldn’t. “Just don’t,” I mutter with softer voice but I don’t move. I should. I know I should.

Tristan ’s still watching me, his expression unreadable now, less smug, more…real. Honest in a way that knocks the wind out of me. And he doesn’t say anything. He just waits.

My heart’s thudding so hard I swear he can hear it.

I look up at him again. His eyes are on mine, then lower, then back up. Like he’s giving me the chance to stop this.

I don’t.

Before I can think, before I can second-guess, I lean in. Just slightly. Barely. But it’s enough.

His breath catches and then his lips are on mine.

It’s not soft. It’s not gentle. It’s everything we’ve been holding back, the fights, the tension, the way he always gets under my skin, the way I hate how much I notice him.

His hand slides behind my neck, pulling me closer, like he’s afraid I’ll change my mind.

But I don’t.

Not yet.

The kiss is wild, heated, years of unspoken things poured into seconds. My fingers curl into his shirt like I need to anchor myself, but that’s when it hits me.

What am I doing?

I freeze. The pressure of his lips still on mine, his hand still on my neck, but I can’t feel anything except the alarm blaring in my head.

I pull back suddenly, breathless, my fingers still fisted in his shirt. He blinks at me, surprised, his lips parted like he’s about to speak.

“I- I shouldn’t have done that,” I whisper. My voice is shaky, embarrassingly unsure. I let go of his shirt like it’s burning me. “This was a mistake.”

He doesn’t move. Just watches me, quiet for once. That might be the worst part.

I stand, brushing off my jeans like it’ll somehow erase the moment. “We were fighting,” I add quickly. “It was adrenaline. That’s all.”

I don’t even believe myself.

He rises slowly, like he’s trying to read me. “Sure,” he says. But there’s something in his voice, something that says he’s not buying the lie either.

I turn away before he can say anything else. Before I do something even dumber.

Like kiss him again.

Tristan

She’s gone.

She just… left.

I’m still standing here like an idiot, heart pounding, lips still kinda burning from the kiss. I don’t even know what just happened. One second, we were yelling, the next we were kissing, and now she’s gone and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

She said it was a mistake.

A mistake.

And yeah, maybe it was, but it didn’t feel like one.

I lean against the wall and press my hands to my face.

 I feel like my brain’s on fire. I kissed her. Or she kissed me. I don’t even know who started it. It just happened. And now I can’t stop thinking about it.

The worst part?

I’ve liked her for so long.

She probably doesn’t even know. Actually, scratch that, she definitely doesn’t. She’s always thought I hated her or something, but I never did. Not even once. She always rolls her eyes at me, and yeah, I tease her a lot, but only because I don’t know what else to do. Whenever she talks, I forget what I was gonna say. She gets under my skin, like in the kind of way where I want her there. Like… stuck in my head.

She’s just… beautiful.

Like, I don’t think she even knows. Her eyes are this mix of brown and hazel, and they kind of change in the light. When she looks at me, even when she’s mad, I can’t look away. Her skin’s this soft brown colour that makes her look like summer all the time, and her hair is dark and long and always kind of messy in a perfect way. She’s just her. And every time I see her, I feel like I forget how to act like a normal person.

And now I kissed her. And she ran.

She said it was adrenaline or something. That’s so dumb. Kisses don’t happen from adrenaline. They happen because you want to. And she did. I could feel it.

But then she looked at me like she wished it never happened.

I hate that look.

I wish I could tell her I didn’t mean to mess everything up. That I didn’t hate her. That I never did. That I’ve liked her since, like, forever. Since the first time I saw her walking into class with her too-big backpack and those annoyed eyes that looked like she’d already figured everyone out.

But I just stood there.

Like always.

Emma

 I’m clutching my binder like it’s the only thing holding me together when I crash into someone. Papers fly. My thoughts scatter with them.

“Whoa, careful,” a voice says, low, smooth, calm in a way that makes me feel more flustered.

Strong hands steady me before I can fall. I look up and, great. Just perfect.

Luca Rivera.

Captain of the soccer team. Charm machine. Tristan ’s favourite person to hate.

“Oh, sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going,” I mumble, trying to collect my papers, but he kneels down to help.

“No problem,” he says with that easy smile that makes people trip over themselves. “Rough morning?”

“You could say that.”

He picks up my binder, glances at the Prom Committee sticker. “Ah, right. The event of the year. You and Gray, huh?”

I force a laugh. “Unfortunately.”

Luca chuckles. “Well, good luck. You’ll need it with him.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Before I can blink, another voice cuts in. Honey-sweet and razor-edged.

“Well, isn’t this cute?”

I turn.

Sienna Vale.

Of course. The hallway queen, wearing her cheer jacket like a crown, eyes sharp enough to slice through glass. She glances between me and Luca, one perfectly arched brow lifting.

“Didn’t know we were having a hallway meet-cute today,” she says.

“Sienna,” Luca sighs. “Don’t start.”

“Start?” she echoes, feigning innocence. “I’m just saying hi.” Then she smiles at me, the kind of smile that could almost pass for friendly if not for the venom hiding behind it. “Hi, Emma. How’s prom planning? I heard Tristan ’s… intense to work with.”

I narrow my eyes. “You heard right.”

She tilts her head, pretending to sympathize. “He can be a lot. But once you get past that, he’s actually really—”

“Annoying?” I offer.

She laughs lightly. “I was going to say good company. But sure, annoying works too.”

Luca shifts beside me, awkward now. “You two know each other?”

“Oh, we’ve crossed paths,” Sienna says. “I used to work with Tristan last year. On a few… projects.”

The way she says projects  makes my stomach tighten.

Before I can ask what, she means, a familiar voice echoes down the hall.

“Rivera! Vale! Don’t you two have class?”

I don’t have to look to know who it is. My pulse spikes anyway.

Tristan.

He’s walking toward us, hands in his pockets, like nothing happened fifteen minutes ago. Like we didn’t just—

My face burns.

He stops beside me, his gaze flicking between Luca and Sienna before landing on me. There’s the briefest pause, a heartbeat too long — and I know he’s thinking the same thing I am.

“Didn’t know this was a party,” he says coolly.

“It’s not,” I mutter.

Sienna’s eyes light up, sensing the tension like blood in the water. “Hey, Tristan,” she says, smile widening. “We were just talking about you.”

“Were you now?” His voice is dry. “Can’t imagine what for.”

“Oh, just how fun you must be to work with,” Sienna teases, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

Tristan gives her that lazy grin — the one that used to make half the school swoon — but his eyes flick to me when he says, “Yeah, Emma and I make a great team.”

The air thickens instantly.

Sienna’s smile falters just slightly. Luca looks between us like he’s missing a punchline. And me? I can’t even breathe.

Luca breaks the silence. “Well, if you ever need an extra pair of hands for prom, Emma, I’m in. Happy to help.”

Tristan ’s jaw ticks. “She’s got enough help.”

“Didn’t realize I needed your permission,” I shoot back.

He smirks. “You don’t. You just need better judgment.”

Before I can respond, Sienna loops her arm through his. “Relax, Gray. Don’t scare off the volunteers.”      

Tristan doesn’t move, doesn’t shake her off — but his eyes are still on me. And that’s worse.

Luca

For a second, no one says anything. The hallway noise fades — lockers slamming, laughter, footsteps — all of it dulls beneath the tension humming between the four of us.

Emma’s voice still lingers in the air, sharp and steady:

“You know, Sienna, for someone who’s over Tristan, you spend a lot of time talking about him.”

Sienna’s smile freezes, just slightly. I almost feel bad for her, almost — but the way Emma delivers that line? Calm. Controlled. Like she’s not even trying to win, just setting the record straight.

I catch myself staring.

There’s something magnetic about her — not in the usual, flashy way I’m used to. It’s quieter. Real. And somehow, that rattles me more than I expect.

Tristan ’s jaw tightens. “You done?” he mutters, but the edge in his voice isn’t for Sienna. It’s for Emma.

I step in before things can go nuclear. “Alright, let’s chill, yeah? It’s too early for World War Three.”

Sienna rolls her eyes. “Please. I was just making conversation.”

“Sure, you were,” I say, crossing my arms.

I turn to Emma, offering a small grin, the kind that usually diffuses tension. “You good?”

She exhales, shoulders dropping just a bit. “Yeah. Fine.”

But I can tell she’s lying, there’s a flicker in her eyes, something she’s trying hard to bury.

Tristan’s still watching her, unreadable. And for the first time, I wonder if the rumours about those two might actually be true.

I look between them, Emma’s guarded stare, Tristan ’s clenched jaw, and something uneasy twists in his chest.

“See you around, Emma,” he says finally, voice lower now. “And, uh… seriously. If you need help with prom, I meant it.”

I don’t wait for Tristan ’s reaction. I just walk away before I can say something stupid, like how I already starting to wish I’d met her before Tristan did.

Tristan

Luca’s footsteps echo down the hall, fading, but his last words won’t.

“If you need help with prom, I meant it.”

I watch Emma gather her papers like they’re the only thing keeping her from combusting. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t even breathe in my direction. And somehow, that pisses me off more than it should.

Sienna’s still standing there, smirking like she owns the place. “Well,” she says, flicking her hair, “that was fun. We should do this more often.”

“Go to class, Vale,” I mutter.

Her smile goes razor-thin. “You’re no fun anymore.” She spins on her heel and struts off, leaving the faint smell of her perfume and too much attitude behind.

Finally, it’s just me and Emma.

She’s shoving the last of her papers into her binder, eyes fixed anywhere but on me. The silence stretches, heavy, sharp, almost alive.

“You didn’t have to snap at her,” she says finally, voice flat but tight.

“I didn’t.”

She gives a short, humourless laugh. “You kind of did.”

“Maybe she deserved it.”

That gets her to look up, and when she does, I swear the air shifts. Her eyes catch mine, steady and bright, and for a second, I forget whatever stupid comeback I had ready.

“You can’t just bulldoze people because you don’t like what they say,” she says.

“Then how does it work?” I ask, taking a step closer before I can stop myself. “Because last I checked, you weren’t exactly jumping to defend me either.”

She opens her mouth, then closes it. Her grip on her binder tightens like it’s the only thing anchoring her.

“This isn’t about you, Tristan ,” she says, softer now. “It’s about prom. Remember?”

I try to smile, but it feels fake. “Right. Prom.”

She moves past me, and I should just let her go, but I don’t. I reach out, catch her wrist gently.

“Emma,” I say, and it comes out lower than I meant. “Luca’s not your type.”

She blinks, surprised. “And you’d know my type because…?”

“Because it’s definitely not him.”

Her mouth curves, not into a smile exactly, more like a quiet dare. “You’re right. It’s not him.”

I start to say something, but she beats me to it.

“It’s definitely not you  either.”

Then she’s gone, binder clutched to her chest, footsteps quick and certain, leaving me standing there with the echo of her words and the faint trace of her shampoo in the air.

And damn it — she’s right.
But it doesn’t stop me from wishing she wasn’t.

Emma

The bell rings for lunch, and I make my way downstairs to the cafeteria,

I slide into an empty table. My brain’s still replaying every second of that kiss, the anger, the heat, the regret.

“Mind if I sit?” Luca’s voice cuts through her thoughts. He’s holding two lunch trays, one balanced in each hand.

“I noticed you forgot yours,” he says, setting one down in front of her before she can argue.

“I didn’t forget,” she mutters, “just… not hungry.”

He shrugs, sitting across from her. “Then let me waste my time feeding an ungrateful prom co-chair.”

Despite herself, she laughs, small, but real.

“Thanks,” she says, finally meeting his eyes.

Luca smiles, soft and steady. “Anytime.”

And for the first time that day, her chest feels a little less heavy.

“Luca don’t you sit with your jock friends or whatever? And this is the first time you’ve ever sit next to me…why all of a sudden?”

He leans back in his chair, smirking just enough to make it look effortless. “Maybe I got bored of the same company. Maybe I figured the prom committee table needed a little upgrade.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Oh, so you’re doing charity work now?”

“Something like that.” His eyes meet mine—steady, unreadable in that calm, infuriating way of his. “Or maybe I just thought you could use a break.”

A break. From what? From Tristan ? From myself?

“I’m fine,” I say automatically. “Just… busy.”

He doesn’t buy it. “You don’t look fine,” he says lightly, then adds, “You look like you’re carrying the whole school on that color-coded binder of yours.”

“Wow,” I say dryly. “You sound just like him.”

He pauses mid-bite. “Him?”

I realize my mistake too late. “No one,” I say quickly, but his grin is already growing.

“Gray,” he says, drawing out the name. “Didn’t realize I struck a nerve.”

“You didn’t,” I mutter, but it sounds weak, even to me.

He watches me for a second, something softer creeping into his expression. “For what it’s worth, he’s an idiot if he’s stressing you out.”

That almost makes me laugh. Almost. “You have no idea.”

“Maybe I want to,” he says.

I look up, surprised. There’s no teasing in his tone this time. Just quiet honesty, and for a second, it feels… easy. Calmer than anything’s felt all day.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see someone across the cafeteria—leaning against the vending machine, hands in his pockets, eyes locked on me.

Tristan .

Our gazes meet for half a second before he looks away, jaw tight.

And just like that, the air feels heavier again.

Luca follows my glance, his expression shifting. “Guess I really am stealing enemy territory,” he says with a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

I roll mine, but my pulse skips anyway. “You’re not stealing anything.”

He smirks. “We’ll see about that.”

Tristan

From across the room, I can see her — head tilted, that half-smile tugging at her lips. The one she gets when she’s trying not to show she’s amused.

And Luca’s the one making her smile.

Of course he is.

Golden boy. Easy charm. No baggage.

I shove my hands deeper into my jacket pockets, pretending I’m not watching. But my eyes keep finding her anyway. Every time she laughs, it hits like a small, sharp reminder of everything I ruined this morning.

She looks lighter now. Calmer.

Not like the girl who’d looked at me after that kiss — angry, confused, alive.

God, that kiss.

I can still feel it — the warmth of her breath, the way she didn’t pull away right away, like part of her didn’t want to.

Then the look that came after.

Like I was a mistake she’d just realized she’d made.

Luca says something — I can’t hear it — and she laughs again. Not loud, but enough to twist something in my chest.

I bite back a curse and turn away, but not before she glances up.

For half a second, our eyes lock.

Her smile fades.

She looks down at her tray, pretending she didn’t see me.

And that’s worse than anger.

At least when she’s angry, she feels something.

This… distance? It’s like she’s shutting the door I never even had the right to open.

Luca says something else — softer this time — and she nods.

I can’t take it anymore.

I grab a soda from the vending machine I wasn’t even planning to use, crack it open just to do something with my hands, and walk out.

The noise of the hallway swallows me, but it doesn’t drown out the thought that keeps looping in my head.

She’s moving on.

And I’m still standing exactly where she left me.

Emma

The bell rings, echoing down the hall like a sigh.

Students spill out of the cafeteria in loud, laughing waves, but I linger — stacking trays, pretending I’m not stalling.

Luca’s already gone, off to some late meeting with Coach. He’d left with a grin and a, “Try not to stress about prom too much, alright?”

Easier said than done.

I swing around the corner toward the supply room — the one where the prom committee keeps everything — and nearly crash straight into someone.

Someone tall.

Someone I’d been trying not to think about.

“Watch where you’re—”

My voice dies when I see his face.

“Tristan .”

He looks just as startled — then guarded.

For a moment, neither of us says anything. The silence between us hums like static.

“Didn’t think you’d be here,” he says finally, his tone neutral, careful.

“Yeah, well. Prom decorations don’t build themselves.”

He gives a short nod, eyes flicking past me toward the boxes stacked along the wall.

“Right. Prom. You and Luca looked pretty… productive at lunch.”

There it is — the edge under his voice. Jealousy wrapped in sarcasm.

I cross my arms. “We were just talking.”

“Sure,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Looked like a great talk.”

“Are you seriously doing this right now?”

His gaze snaps to mine, sharp, burning, frustrated. “I’m not doing anything. You’re the one—”

He cuts himself off, jaw tight.

“The one what?” I challenge.

He exhales hard, running a hand through his hair. “Forget it.”

“No, Tristan . You don’t get to say something halfway and then walk away again.”

My voice cracks, but I don’t care.

“Not after what you did this morning.”

He flinches slightly, just enough to tell me it hit.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “About that… I shouldn’t have. It was—”

“A mistake?” I finish for him, heart pounding.

He hesitates. Looks at me. Really looks.

“No,” he says finally. “It wasn’t a mistake. Just terrible timing.”

For a second, everything stops.

The hallway noise fades. The air feels thick, heavy.

“Tristan —” I start, but he’s already stepping back.

“Forget it,” he says again, softer this time. “Just… forget I said anything.”

He walks past me before I can stop him.

And I’m left staring after him, pulse still racing, mind spinning, wondering which one of us is lying more — him for walking away, or me for wishing he hadn’t.

But something in me snaps.
I’ve spent the whole day pretending that kiss didn’t happen, pretending he didn’t look at me like I was the only person in the room — and now he wants to just walk away?

“Tristan , stop!”

He freezes mid-step, shoulders tense. For a moment, he doesn’t turn around. Then, slowly, he does — and the look in his eyes is like a storm held barely in check.

“What?” he asks quietly.

I take a breath. My heart’s pounding so hard it hurts, but I don’t care. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to kiss me, disappear, and then act like nothing happened.”

His jaw tightens. “I told you; it was bad timing.”

“Then pick better timing,” I say, voice trembling. “But don’t you dare pretend it meant nothing.”

He takes a step closer. Then another. The space between us shrinks until I can feel the warmth radiating off him.

“It didn’t mean nothing,” he says, each word low and deliberate. “That’s the problem.”

My breath catches.
He’s close enough now that I can see the tiny scar near his eyebrow, the one I used to think made him look untouchable.

“Then why are you walking away?” I whisper.

He swallows hard. “Because you deserve someone who doesn’t screw everything up just by being near you.”

I shake my head. “You don’t get to decide what I deserve.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Trust me, I do. I’ve seen what happens when people get too close to me.”

“Then maybe let me decide if it’s worth it,” I say.

He looks at me for a long moment, like he’s memorizing every word, every breath — and for a heartbeat, it feels like he might actually close the space between us again.

But then his gaze drops, and he steps back. “You don’t know what you’re asking for, Emma.”

“Then tell me,” I whisper.

His eyes flick up, pained and raw. “I can’t.”

And before I can stop him this time, he’s gone, leaving me in the empty hallway with a heavy heart, full of questions and no answers.

Luca

I kick the football hard into the goal, but it doesn’t hit right. Too low. Too soft.
Zayne whistles from midfield. “Hey! Lulu! What’s going on? You’re playing weird today, man. You’re not—” he gestures vaguely, “you know, scary.”
“Maybe I’m tired,” I mutter, jogging after the ball.
He raises a brow. “Tired? You? The guy who once played through a sprained ankle and a fever?”
I ignore him, lining up another shot. The ball connects with a dull thud, flying wide. Perfect.
Zayne jogs up beside me; wiping sweat off his forehead. “Okay, spill. What’s actually going on?”
I stare at the grass, jaw tight. The truth sits heavy on my tongue. I don’t even know what to call it.
“It’s… someone,” I admit finally.

He grins instantly. “Ah. Knew it. Who’s the lucky girl?”
I hesitate. For a second, I think about lying, but the name slips out anyway.
“Emma.”
Zayne’s grin fades. “Gray’s Emma?”
“She’s not Gray’s anything,” I shoot back, sharper than I mean to.
He raises both hands. “Okay, chill. Just saying. You and Tristan —don’t exactly hang out, man. And she’s, like… in the middle of that.”
“Yeah,” I say under my breath. “Tell me about it.”
Zayne tilts his head. “You like her?”
Do I?
I think about her laugh in the cafeteria, the way she tries so hard to stay composed even when she’s falling apart. The way she looked at me like maybe, for a second, I wasn’t just another guy passing through.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I think I do.”
Zayne whistles again. “Well, damn. Guess this year’s prom is gonna be more dramatic than the actual dance.”
I almost laugh, but it doesn’t quite come out.
Because deep down, I already know he’s right.
And whatever this thing is — between me, her, and Tristan  — it’s only just getting started.

I head to the boy’s locker rooms, and make my way to the showers, I spot someone there, someone who I hate, Tristan .

He spots me, gives me a glare and turns around and continues drying his hair. I walk towards him, about to say something, when he cuts me off,

“Look Luca, if this is about Emma, don’t. Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

“Tristan …I know you like her, but I might have started to like h-’’

He cuts me.

“Shut up… SHUT UP LUCA!”

I widen my eyes at him, anger surging through my veins.

“What the hell do you mean shut up Tristan ?”

I take a step closer, voice low but steady. “You know what, man? Whatever this is with you and Emma, you better figure it out before you hurt her. Because right now, you’re just—”

I don’t get to finish.

Tristan ’s hand shoots out, fisting my shirt, and before anyone can blink, he shoves me hard into the row of lockers. The metal clangs loud enough to echo.

“Don’t,” Tristan  growls, voice rough. “Don’t talk about her like you know her.”

I shove him back, eyes blazing. “Then maybe stop acting like she’s yours when you don’t even know what you want!”

 Tristan ’s fist draws back — pure instinct — but before it lands, two teammates rush in.
“Hey, whoa, whoa! Break it up!” Zayne and his friend grab Tristan by the arms, dragging him back.
I’m still against the lockers, chest heaving, a red mark already blooming on my collarbone where he shoved me.

“What the hell, Gray?!” Zayne snaps. “You trying to get suspended?”

Tristan jerks out of his grip, pacing, every breath like a punch to his ribs. His knuckles are white, shaking, but he doesn’t swing again. He just glares at me — something in his eyes caught between fury and heartbreak.

I straighten, voice quieter now but still edged. “You just proved my point, man. You don’t even know why you’re mad — just that it’s eating you alive.”

Tristan doesn’t answer. Can’t.

The locker room is silent except for the echo of his ragged breathing and the faint drip of water from the showers.

By the time Coach storms into the locker room, the air still feels charged — metallic, tense. Tristan ’s sitting on the bench, head in his hands, shirt half-torn from where Zayne pulled him back. I’m standing near the lockers, arms crossed, jaw tight but silent.

“What’s going on here?” Coach barks.

No one answers. Zayne mutters, “Just a misunderstanding,” but even he doesn’t sound like he believes it.

Coach’s eyes narrow. “Gray, in my office. Now.”

Tristan doesn’t argue. He just grabs his bag and stalks out, shoulders hunched, pulse still thundering.

Emma

The voices hit me before I even see who’s talking.

“Did you hear? Tristan Gray almost decked Luca in the locker room.”
“Over what?”
“Something about the prom committee girl — Emma something.”

My stomach plummets straight through the floor.

I don’t think. I just move, fast. The words echo behind me as I walk down the hall, my pulse thudding so loud it drowns out everything else.

When I find him, he’s slumped against the wall outside the gym. His hair’s damp, his shirt half untucked, and there’s a bruise already blooming across his knuckles. He looks like trouble sculpted out of regret.

“Tristan?” My voice comes out softer than I mean it to.

He looks up. For a second, I catch something raw in his eyes — the thing he hides behind smirks and sarcasm. And it hits me that whatever happened, it wasn’t just anger. It was pain.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he mutters.

“I heard what happened.”
“Of course you did,” he says, voice bitter. “Guess that’s making the rounds fast.”

“Why, Tristan?” I ask. “What could possibly make you so angry you’d almost hit Luca?”

He hesitates, and I swear I can see the war behind his eyes, like he wants to tell me something but can’t. Or won’t.

Finally, he says, “He said something he shouldn’t have.”

It’s such a thin excuse it almost hurts to hear.

I crouch a little so we’re eye level. “You can’t keep doing this,” I tell him. “The shutting down. The explosions. You think pushing people away makes it easier, but it just hurts more.”

He looks up at me then, and for a second, it feels like the air between us stops moving. His voice is low, eyes full of hurt. When he says, “You think I don’t know that?”

The silence after that is thick, the kind that hums with everything we’re not saying.

I take a step back before I lose my nerve. “Figure yourself out, Tristan,” I whisper. “Before you wreck everything.”

Then I walk away, my heartbeat echoing in my ears, and for once, he doesn’t follow.

Sienna

I make my way to the library because I know that’s where friendless people hangout including Emma. My minions, Joanna and Nera. They told me what happened,

How Tristan fought over that sick Emma with Luca, just picturing it makes me sick to my stomach. Why her out off all the other girls in this school? Did the rest of the girl’s population die or something? And… there are many people better than her, example- Me.

I’m literally drop dead gorgeous, like any guy would die for me, (No kidding).

My soft blonde hair, my dashing blue eyes, and my pink pout lips, and curved body.

I literally scream perfect.

The library smells like old books and cheap perfume. I walk in slow, because drama is better when it’s earned. Emma’s hunched over her binder like she’s carved out a little island of competence in the sea of mediocrity. Perfect.

Joanna and Nera fall into step behind me, obedient and eager — exactly the kind of pets I like: useful, visible when I want them to be, silent the rest of the time.

“Hi, Emma,” I say, all sugar. She looks up, eyes wary. Good. That look is worth the rehearsal.

I close the distance until my voice is close enough that only she can hear. “You know, people are talking.” The words are light, meaningless, and they land like little stones. I watch her face tighten. Delicious.

Joanna moves first — the motion is tiny, rehearsed: a hand on Emma’s elbow, a “sorry” that sounds like sleepwalking. Nera mirrors it on the other side. They’re careful but firm; not enough to bruise, just enough to take the breath out of someone who isn’t expecting it.

Emma tries to pull away, fingers clenching on her binder. Her eyes flash to mine — the only real challenge I’ve had all day — and for a ridiculous second, I almost laugh. She thinks she can scare me down.

“Let them go,” she says, voice steadier than I expected. She’s brave — bless her — but bravery doesn’t win popularity contests. I want her unsettled. I want the class to choose a side. And I know just how to tip the scale.

I raise my hand because theater matters. All the world is onlookers, and I will give them a show. The slap is quick, loud against the quiet of the library; it sounds like a book dropping. Heads snap up. The air goes sharp, like someone cracked a window in winter.

Emma’s cheek flares pink. For a heartbeat she’s stunned — not because of the sting but because of the humiliation. She reaches up, fingers trembling, and for once she looks small.

Tiny, perfect, delicious.

“Watch your tone, Martin,” I say, voice cold now, the syrup gone. “We don’t talk to people like that.” It’s a lie; I don’t care about tone. I care about control. I care about the ripple.

Then, because people love escalation, the world decides to punch back.

The library door slams and he’s there — Tristan — framing the doorway like a threat and an apology at once. His face is fenced with fury; everything about him is raw. For one terrible second, I think: he saw it. He saw the whole thing. My stomach flips in a way I do not like.

“Hey!” His voice cuts across the quiet, sharp as a blade. “What the hell is going on here?”

Emma’s eyes find his like she’s found a rope in the dark. Her fingers curl around her binder like a lifejacket.

Tristan strides in, every step knocking my careful composition loose. He’s closer now, and up close I can see the quick bruise blooming at his knuckles from earlier, the way his jaw tenses like rope. He looks ready to do something stupid — the kind of stupid I can use.

“You touch her,” he says, low, not shouting but every word weighted. “You don’t. Get your hands off her.”

My pulse hammers like a bad drumbeat. I tilt my chin up, because I will not show him I’m rattled. “She was being rude,” I say, and the words come out brittle and small when I hear them.

He doesn’t move. Joanna and Nera shrink back, suddenly unsure where their loyalties belong. The rest of the library is a field of faces — judgment like a weather front moving in.

Tristan steps between me and Emma, a human wall. He doesn’t touch me. For once, he doesn’t need to. His presence is enough to steal the scene away from me. The air changes; people are no longer watching my performance. They are watching him.

“You don’t get to do that,” he says again, looking at me now like he can see the wiring behind my smile. There is something in his eyes — not just anger, but a precise, cold thing that promises consequences.

For a second I want to laugh — to tell him how theatrical he is, how melodramatic — but the joke dies on my tongue. Because his look is more dangerous than a slap. It is a threat that runs quieter and deeper.

Emma looks at him like he’s a lighthouse. Luca’s footsteps are somewhere in the background — or maybe that’s something I imagined; I don’t need him. The important thing is the room has split: the ones who will whisper about Emma, and the ones who will whisper about me.

Tristan ’s hand curls at his side. The muscles in his neck move. He could grab me, shout, call security, make the scene ten times worse. I know him well enough to know how far he will go when he thinks someone he cares about is hurt. And that scares me in a way I have not felt since I first learned how to command a room.

Slowly, deliberately, he says, “This isn’t happening.” Then to Emma, softer, “You, okay?”

She nods, eyes glassy. I watch the moment like a card trick; the audience has a new favourite. It is maddening.

I take one last breath, palms slightly damp. My minions are backing away. Faces are turned. I still try to salvage the power with a curl of my lip, a last, regal tilt of entitlement.

“Fine,” I say. “If that’s how you want it.” I turn on my heel and leave, because walking away is often the best parting shot — leaves, aftertaste, rumour. Behind me, the library hums with gossip that will be chewed and shared. The slap will be louder than any whisper I could have sown.

But as I cross the threshold, Tristan ’s voice follows me, low and sure.

“You will regret this, Sienna.”

Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. For the first time since the morning, the idea of regret looks complicated. It tastes like adrenaline and the smell of library dust — and, disturbingly, like the sudden recognition that I might have finally given someone else reason to fight for the girl I wanted to break.

 Luca

By the time I hear about it, it’s already everywhere.

“Sienna slapped Emma in the library.”

The words hit harder than any tackle I took at practice.

I freeze halfway down the hallway, my grip tightening on the strap of my bag.
“…She what?”

The guy who told me just shrugs like it’s normal gossip. “Yeah. Gray went full hero mode after.”

Hero mode.

My stomach twists.

Of course, Tristan was there.
And of course I wasn’t.

I turn before my brain even catches up, sneakers squeaking against the floor as I head toward the library. Every step feels wrong, like I missed something important and now I’m stuck watching the replay instead of the moment.

When I get there, the crowd’s already thinning. People whisper. Phones are out. Drama already archived.

Too late.

I spot Emma near the tables, still holding that same color-coded binder like it’s armour. Her posture’s calm, but I know better now. She only looks steady when she’s trying not to fall apart.

Tristan’s beside her.

Close.

Protective.

My jaw tightens before I can stop it.

He’s leaning in, saying something low. Not smug. Not sarcastic. Just… real. The kind of Tristan most people never see. And the kind she somehow pulls out of him without even trying.

I stand there for a second too long, watching.

Emma nods at something he says. Her fingers brush her cheek — the one Sienna slapped — and something ugly crawls up my spine.

I should’ve been here.

I walk closer, clearing my throat. “Emma?”

She looks up, surprised. “Luca.”

Her voice is normal. Too normal. Like she’s pretending nothing happened.

I glance at Tristan. He straightens instantly, like he senses a challenge. His eyes flick to mine, dark and guarded.

Yeah. We’re still doing this.

“You okay?” I ask her softly.

She hesitates — just a fraction of a second — then nods. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Lie.

I can read people on the field. I can read crowds. I can read pressure.
And Emma right now looks like someone holding water in her hands, praying it doesn’t spill.

Tristan beats me to it. “Sienna crossed a line.”

My eyes snap to him. “She didn’t just cross it. She burned it.”

Emma exhales, like she doesn’t want either of us fighting over her again. “Guys… please.”

That word hits weird.

Guys.

Not me. Not him. Just… both of us.

I run a hand through my hair, forcing my tone softer. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

Her brows knit. “You couldn’t have known.”

“Still,” I say. “If I had, I would’ve—”

Tristan cuts in, quiet but sharp. “She handled herself.”

I look at him. Really look.

His fist is clenched. His jaw’s tight. His whole body is wired like he’s one wrong word away from exploding again.

“You don’t get extra points for showing up late and angry,” I say.

“And you don’t get points for showing up after everything’s done,” he fires back.

Emma steps between us before it gets ugly. “Stop. Both of you.”

Silence drops.

She looks at me first. Her eyes are tired, but warm. “Thank you for caring.”

Then she looks at Tristan. Different. Deeper. Like something unfinished lives there.
“And… thank you for stepping in.”

That look?

Yeah.

That’s when I know.

Not guess.
Not assume.

Know.

Whatever’s happening between them didn’t start today. And it’s not ending anytime soon either.

Tristan nods once, like he doesn’t trust himself to say more.

I force a small smile. “If Sienna even breathes wrong near you again, tell me.”

Emma lets out a quiet laugh. “What, you’ll scare her with soccer energy?”

“I will absolutely weaponize soccer energy,” I say, dead serious.

She laughs a little more this time.

And damn it — that’s all I wanted.

But I still feel it.

The space I’m standing in.
The way Tristan’s closer.
The way her eyes drift back to him even when she’s talking to me.

I sling my bag higher on my shoulder. “I should go before Gray tackles me again.”

Tristan scoffs. “Only if you earn it.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Children.”

But she’s smiling.

As I walk away, I don’t feel angry.

I feel… aware.

Because liking Emma isn’t the problem.

The problem is that Tristan already does too.

And whatever started with a kiss, a slap, and a prom committee?

Yeah.

It’s about to turn into something way bigger than any of us planned.

Emma

My cheeks still stings, that witch of a woman couldn’t even control herself from slapping me.

But I know one thing.

Tristan was there, it made my heart flutter, I don’t know why.

That’s not supposed to happen with him.

Maybe more like with Luca, but Luca was there too

Later…