Chapter 1: New Shadows

The first day at Ridgeway High smelled like fresh paint, wet grass, and nerves.

Elara Grey stood at the gates, her sketchpad clutched tightly to her chest like a shield. Her heart raced with the awkward mixture of fear and hope that came with being the new girl—again. She had memorized the school map, practiced her introduction in the mirror, and told herself it would be different this time. No more fading into the background. No more hiding in the art room during lunch. This was her chance to start fresh.

But as she stepped into the courtyard, laughter rang out—not the friendly kind. It was the sharp, mocking kind that made your stomach twist.

"Nice hat, loser!" someone yelled.

A boy staggered backward, backpack pulled over his head, his books scattering across the concrete. A tall figure towered over him, smirking.

Elara froze.

The guy doing the bullying was impossible to miss. Jet-black hair, messy like he didn’t care. Dark hoodie despite the spring heat. A chipped silver ring on his thumb. And eyes—piercing gray eyes that looked straight through people.

Jaxon Reid.

Even without an introduction, she knew who he was. Every school had one: the untouchable bad boy with a reputation soaked in rumors. At Ridgeway, it was Jaxon. Some said he’d been expelled twice. Others whispered he broke a teacher’s nose in eighth grade. There was even a tale about him getting arrested—though no one could confirm it.

He glanced around, then locked eyes with her.

She looked away.

Too late.

He started walking toward her.

Elara’s heart jumped into her throat. She turned her gaze to her sketchpad, pretending to be absorbed in her half-finished drawing of a tree. Her hands trembled as she shaded a branch that didn’t need shading.

"Hey, new girl," came a deep voice.

She didn’t look up.

"Are you deaf or just rude?" Jaxon’s voice was closer now, laced with mock amusement.

Elara exhaled slowly, lifting her eyes. “Neither. Just busy.”

His brow lifted. “Busy drawing a tree?”

“Yes. Unlike you, I don't get my kicks from harassing freshmen.”

Gasps fluttered around the courtyard like falling leaves. A few students stopped to watch.

Jaxon smirked. “Feisty. That’s new.”

“I’m not interested in being your next target, so if you could go find someone else to torment, that would be great.”

For a moment, his smirk faltered. Then it returned, sharper than before. “You’ve got guts. I’ll give you that.”

He leaned in just slightly, enough for her to smell mint and smoke on his breath. “But careful, Grey. Ridgeway eats people like you alive.”

With that, he turned and walked away, shoving his hands in his pockets as if nothing had happened.

Elara exhaled sharply and looked around. People were still staring.

"Nice knowing you," someone muttered as they passed.

Elara sighed. So much for a fresh start.

By third period, she was already marked as the girl who talked back to Jaxon Reid. A few students looked at her with admiration. Most avoided her altogether. Arielle Torres, a bold girl with bright blue hair and a sharp tongue, slid into the seat next to her in history class and offered a look that was part curiosity, part warning.

“You either have a death wish,” Arielle said, “or you're new.”

“New,” Elara replied.

“I’m Arielle. And you, Elara Grey, are either the bravest person I’ve ever met or the dumbest.”

“I just don’t like bullies.”

Arielle grinned. “Neither do I. But Jaxon… he's not just a bully. He’s—complicated.”

“Everyone is,” Elara said without thinking. “Doesn’t make it okay.”

Arielle studied her for a long moment. “You might actually survive here.”

Lunchtime came, and Elara did what she always did—headed to the art room.

To her relief, it was empty. She sank into the corner desk and opened her sketchpad, finally letting herself breathe. Her pencil moved on its own, translating her nerves into graphite strokes. But when she looked down, she froze.

It was him.

Jaxon.

Not a detailed portrait—just fragments. His scowl. His eyes. The shadow of his hoodie. The tension in his jaw.

She shut the sketchpad quickly, cheeks burning. What was wrong with her?

The door creaked.

She looked up, startled.

Jaxon stood there.

Again.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Let me guess. Hiding from the big, bad school?”

She stared at him. “What do you want?”

“Was just passing by. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Too bad.”

He chuckled. “You’re different.”

“And you’re annoying.”

His smirk widened, but his eyes seemed thoughtful, almost… sad.

“You didn’t have to step in this morning,” he said, voice lower.

“I didn’t step in. I just called you out.”

“Same thing.”

Silence stretched between them.

Jaxon glanced at her sketchpad. “You draw?”

“No. I just carry this around to look cool.”

He laughed—a real one this time. Not mocking, not cruel. Just… real.

Elara blinked. It caught her off guard.

“Well,” he said, turning away. “Don’t let Ridgeway break you. It likes to chew up the soft ones.”

Then he was gone.

Elara sat there, heart thudding for reasons she didn’t understand.

Maybe Arielle was right.

Maybe Jaxon Reid wasn’t just a bully.

Maybe he was complicated.

And maybe—just maybe—she wanted to understand why.

To be continued

Chapter 2: First Clash

The next morning, Elara walked through Ridgeway’s halls with her head held high—on the outside, at least. Inside, her thoughts were tangled like the headphones in her backpack. She had stood up to the school bully. Twice. And somehow, she was still breathing.

Was she brave? Stupid? Maybe both.

She slid into her seat in homeroom, trying to ignore the whispers that buzzed around her like annoying flies.

“Did you hear? She talked back to Jaxon again.”

“I give her a week before she cracks.”

“He probably likes her or something.”

She stared at the whiteboard, jaw clenched, willing the teacher to arrive. But instead of Ms. Davies walking through the door, in came Jaxon Reid.

Late. Again.

He barely acknowledged the class, slouching into the seat beside her with his usual scowl. Elara felt the tension pulse like static between them. She didn't look at him. Not even a glance.

“Still drawing trees?” he muttered.

Elara rolled her eyes. “Still picking on people smaller than you?”

His lips twitched. “You’re not smaller.”

“You’re not funny.”

“You’re not ignoring me.”

That made her glance his way—just for a second. He was grinning like he’d won something.

“I don’t get it,” she said.

“Get what?”

“Why me? Why are you bothering me?”

Jaxon leaned in slightly, his voice low. “You’re the first person in a long time who didn’t flinch when I spoke.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“It is to me.”

Before she could respond, Ms. Davies finally entered the room, pulling a stack of papers behind her like a tired librarian. She scanned the room and sighed.

“New seating chart today,” she said. “Pair work. You’ll be spending the week together for the assignment.”

Elara’s stomach dropped.

“Grey and Reid—you’re together.”

Of course.

They met again after lunch in the library to start the assignment: a joint report on the causes of the American Civil War. Elara brought her notes, her color-coded pens, her textbook. Jaxon brought... nothing.

“I don’t do group projects,” he said, kicking his feet up on the table.

“You do now,” she said, yanking a chair out and sitting down. “I’m not doing this alone.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Jaxon.”

“What?”

“I don’t care how scary everyone thinks you are. I won’t let you tank my grade.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You think I care about grades?”

“No,” she said calmly. “I think you care more than you let on.”

His smirk vanished. For a second, something flickered in his eyes—something like surprise. Or anger. Or both.

“You don’t know anything about me,” he muttered.

“Maybe not,” she said, “but I know people who act tough usually have a reason.”

Jaxon stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. “You don’t get to play therapist, Grey. Keep your pity to yourself.”

He walked out.

Elara sat there, stunned, heart racing. She hadn’t meant to hit a nerve. But she had. And now she was certain:

There was more to Jaxon Reid than the bruises he gave out.

There were bruises he carried, too.

The next day, he avoided her.

In class, he slumped in his seat, hood pulled low. He didn’t speak. Didn’t look her way. When she tried to hand him her half of the notes, he ignored them.

Arielle nudged her at lunch. “Told you. Complicated.”

“I think I made it worse,” Elara said quietly.

“What happened?”

“I called him out. Again.”

Arielle whistled. “Girl, do you want to die?”

“No,” Elara said with a tiny smile. “But I want to understand.”

“Understand the guy who slashed my cousin’s bike tires? Who got suspended for pushing someone down the stairs?”

“Do you really think that’s all there is to him?”

Arielle paused, her expression softening. “No. But I’ve seen people try to get close. They always get burned.”

By Thursday, Elara found a note tucked inside her sketchpad.

Library. 3:30. Bring the Civil War crap. – JR

She nearly dropped the book.

At 3:30 sharp, she walked into the library. It was empty, except for him—sitting in their corner, for once looking like he belonged there.

“I brought everything,” she said, sliding into the seat.

“Good.”

They worked in silence for ten minutes. Then twenty. He actually read the notes. Asked questions. Took a few scribbled notes of his own.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” she said finally.

“I didn’t think you’d care,” he replied.

“I do.”

He glanced up.

“Not because I think you’re some tragic project,” she added quickly. “Because you’re... interesting.”

He laughed bitterly. “That’s a new one.”

She smiled. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

A beat passed. Then two.

“You were right,” he said quietly. “About me pretending not to care.”

Elara’s fingers stopped tapping her pencil.

“I used to care. A lot. Then caring got me hurt.”

He didn’t explain further.

And she didn’t push.

They sat in silence again, but it was different this time—less like strangers, more like two people quietly stitching their wounds together.

As they walked out of the library, Jaxon shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets.

“You ever get tired of being the new girl?” he asked.

“All the time.”

“You’re not like the others.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not.”

He stopped by the bike racks.

“Don’t let this place change you,” he said.

“I won’t if you don’t make it harder.”

Jaxon chuckled. “I can’t promise that.”

Elara smiled and turned to leave.

“Hey, Grey,” he called.

She turned.

“You’re not so bad.”

She smirked. “Neither are you.”

Yes, to be continued

Chapter 3: Sketches & Scars

Elara’s pencil glided across the page in slow, careful strokes, the rhythm steady like a heartbeat. She was in her usual spot—the last table by the window in the art room—alone during lunch. Her favorite place in the school. No judgment, no noise, just graphite and imagination.

But today, the lines weren’t her usual trees or dreamlike faces.

They were him.

Jaxon Reid’s eyes, brooding and tired. His jawline, tense like he always expected a punch. His lips, never quite smiling, but not entirely cruel either. Elara didn’t mean to draw him—he just… appeared. Again.

She turned the page quickly, flustered. She shouldn’t be thinking about him this much.

Not the school bully.

Not the boy with the sharp tongue and locked-up heart.

But somehow, he lived inside her sketchbook now.

That afternoon, Elara found herself walking toward the gym after school. She didn’t know why—her feet just took her there. She heard shouting and sneakers squeaking across the floor. Boys’ basketball practice. She peeked through the doors.

There he was.

Jaxon, sweaty and furious, dribbling down the court with sharp movements, every slam of the ball echoing his frustration. He wasn’t on the team, but he was there—maybe blowing off steam, maybe pretending for a second that he belonged somewhere.

She almost left.

But then she saw it.

When he reached for a rebound, his hoodie lifted slightly, and her eyes caught it.

A bruise.

Big. Purple. Faded yellow at the edges.

Not fresh—but not old either.

Elara’s heart dropped.

It wasn’t the kind of bruise you got from school fights.

It was the kind someone gives you in private—where no one can see.

She stepped back quietly, her breath caught in her throat.

That night, she couldn’t sleep.

She lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, Jaxon’s bruises burned into her memory. Not just the ones on his skin—but the ones in his silence, in his sarcasm, in his anger.

She didn’t want to pity him. That’s not what this was.

It was something else.

Something deeper.

The next day, they sat together in history class again. The Civil War project had forced them into a strange truce. Jaxon was quieter than usual, his hood up, eyes shadowed.

“Didn’t see you at the library,” she said softly as they packed up their bags.

“Didn’t feel like talking,” he muttered.

“I wasn’t going to talk. Just draw.”

He paused, looking at her. “You still drawing me?”

Her eyes widened. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he said, smirking a little. “You get this look when you’re doing it. Concentrated. Like I’m a puzzle you’re trying to solve.”

“I’m not trying to solve you.”

“Sure you are,” he said, brushing past her.

But he didn’t say it like it was a bad thing.

Later, Elara returned to the art room during her free period. She wanted to draw something else—anything else—but the image kept returning. Not his face this time, but the bruise.

She drew it.

Softly. Light shading. Just enough to capture the tenderness of it, the rawness. Then, in contrast, she drew a hand reaching toward it—not to hurt, but to heal.

It was her hand.

When she finished, she stared at it in silence.

Then she ripped the page out and folded it carefully.

The bell rang.

She didn’t think.

She found him near his