It happened on a Monday.

The kind of Monday that tastes like burnt toast and iron. The kind where everything is just slightly off—too hot, too bright, too loud. Sirenelle Qays was walking through the school hallway like a ghost in a perfectly pressed uniform, her headphones in, ignoring every voice, every stare. Her books were pressed tightly to her chest. Her eyes? Empty.

She didn’t expect the blood. Not so early in the day.

Screams came first. Then a crash. Glass. A thud. And then—

Silence.

Until it wasn’t.

She turned around the corner of the west staircase, the usually quiet one, and saw him—Andras Cruz—lying on the floor, his white shirt blooming red. His head was tilted back. Blood was dripping from a cut above his brow. His knuckles were scraped. His bag had exploded, papers everywhere.

Three juniors were standing over him, unsure whether to help or run.

"Get a teacher!" someone shouted. But Sirenelle didn’t move.

She just stared.

He had always been quiet. Tall. Kept to himself. People whispered about his past—how he vanished for two years and came back older, sharper, quieter. No one really knew what happened. They just knew not to mess with him. He looked like he could break someone’s face and then go back to solving math.

Now he was on the ground, bleeding.

Her shoes stopped inches away from him. Pristine white leather, now splattered with his blood.

His eyes opened slowly. Unfocused. Then… they found hers.

Everything else disappeared.

No voices. No footsteps. No chaos. Just his blood, her breath, and the silence between them.

“You good?” she asked, voice calm.

His lips parted. A drop of blood rolled down his cheek.

“I am now,” he said.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

It wasn’t the words. It was how he looked at her—like her face was something he’d memorized a thousand times before. Like this moment was meant to happen. Like the pain was worth it if she was the one to witness it.

She blinked. And backed away.

“Someone help him,” she muttered, and turned to leave.

But as she walked away, her heart—usually quiet and cold—was pounding.

Because those eyes? They knew her.

Too well.

---

Sirenelle sat at the edge of the school garden, fingers picking at her thumbnail, mind spiraling against her own rules.

Why was he looking at her like that? Why did her pulse spike when he bled at her feet like something feral and devoted? She didn’t like this. She hated this. She had clawed her way out of chaos. Cleaned her name. Erased her past. She didn’t need another boy obsessed with her. Especially not some junior freak with pretty eyes and a messed-up record.

But his voice… that little line—“I am now.”

It replayed like a dirty echo.

She hated how it made her curious. Curious enough to open Instagram during her free period and type his name.

Andras Cruz.

Private account. No profile pic. Zero posts. But she’d recognize the username—he’d sent a follow request a year ago. She never accepted.

She stared at the request still pending.

And for the first time in a long time, her finger hovered.

She didn’t accept it.

But she didn’t delete it either.

---

Meanwhile, Andras sat in the nurse’s room, cotton against his brow, blood crusting at the edge of his temple.

He could still smell her. Her perfume—subtle, vanilla and fire. Her voice—flat, but not cruel. Her eyes—wide for a split second before she covered it up. She felt something. He knew it. He had waited too long not to recognize that crack.

And she saw him.

Not just looked—saw.

“She’s gonna run again,” he whispered.

But this time, he wasn’t going to let her.

He had waited. Obsessed in silence. Respected her space. Stayed in the shadows like a coward. But now? Now she had looked back.

And that was all he needed.

Let the game begin.

Two years ago.

Andras Cruz sat three rows behind her in the auditorium. Back then, he was smaller. Thinner. Still wearing glasses too big for his face, hiding behind oversized hoodies and his transfer papers. No one noticed him. He was just a blur in a crowd. A shadow with a lunchbox.

But she noticed.

Not directly. Not personally. But her presence was like smoke—filling every room, intoxicating, inescapable.

Sirenelle Qays was the loudest person in the room. Laughing too hard. Talking too fast. Sitting on desks. Flicking her black painted nails against water bottles while Mr. Joshi tried to keep the class from turning into a zoo.

Andras had never seen someone like her.

She was poisonously beautiful.

Not in a soft way. But the kind that hurts to look at.

She was dating Blaine Hart then—the golden boy gone rogue. Tattoos. Cigarettes. Rumors about stolen bikes and police warnings. But Sirenelle didn’t just love the fire—she was the fire.

She wasn’t scared of him. She led him.

And Andras? He watched from afar.

Day after day. Year after year.

Until she broke.

One morning she came to school without eyeliner. No loud steps. No laughter. Blaine was gone. Her desk stayed empty for three days. When she returned, she didn’t look at anyone. Not even her friends.

Andras still watched.

Only now he wasn’t watching the fire. He was watching the ashes.

---

Now.

Back in the nurse’s room, a knock tapped gently against the door.

“Cruz,” a voice said. “Someone’s here for you.”

He looked up, blood cleaned, bandage across his brow.

The nurse stepped aside.

And for a second—he hoped.

But it was just one of the juniors. A girl. Nervous. Carrying his shattered glasses.

He took them with a nod.

But he was already thinking of something else.

Not the pain. Not the wound.

Her shoes.

Her white, perfect shoes.

Still stained with his blood.

And that meant a piece of him was with her now. Whether she liked it or not.

And this time? He wouldn’t be just a shadow.

He’d make sure she remembered.

---

The next day.

The school cafeteria was buzzing, plastic trays clattering, gossip flying like bees in a jar. But the moment Andras walked in—tall, bruised, unreadable—the air shifted.

Sirenelle felt it before she saw him.

His presence was louder now.

He didn’t wear his hoodie. Didn’t slouch. His hair was slicked back, revealing the thin cut stitched above his brow. Sharp jaw, darker eyes. The kind of face you don’t forget once it looks directly at you.

And it did.

He walked straight past his usual table. Past the other juniors. And stopped at hers.

The one she shared with her new circle. The softer friends. The calmer ones. The version of her that didn’t pick fights or break hearts.

She looked up, confused.

He dropped something on her tray.

Her pen.

The one she dropped near the staircase yesterday.

“I think this belongs to you,” he said, tone casual, eyes anything but.

Sirenelle blinked.

One of her friends giggled. Another whispered something.

Andras didn’t care.

He leaned down slightly, voice low.

“Hope your shoes came clean.”

Then he left.

She didn’t breathe until he was gone.

And that’s when she realized—

She wasn’t scared.

She was excited.

It was raining.

The kind of rain that turns windows blurry and hearts stupid. The school was half-deserted after club periods, most kids rushing home. Sirenelle stayed back—art room cleanup duty. Her friends had bailed. Typical.

She was in the supply room alone, sorting sketch pads when she heard it.

Click.

The door.

Turned.

Locked.

Her breath hitched.

She turned.

And there he was.

Andras.

He leaned against the door casually, soaked hoodie clinging to him, eyes sharp like wet asphalt under headlights. His hair was dripping, bandage barely visible beneath the curls.

“You locked the door?” she asked.

“I didn’t want an audience.”

His voice was low. Too low.

She swallowed. “Why are you here?”

“You tell me,” he said. “Why haven’t you declined my follow request yet?”

Her mouth parted. She blinked. “You’re keeping score now?”

“No. Just watching patterns.”

He took a step closer. The room shrank. Her skin prickled. She hated how he moved like he already owned the floor beneath her feet.

“You were watching me,” he said. “After the fall. After I bled. After I smiled at you.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Liar.”

He was in front of her now. Close. Too close.

“You think I’m scared of you?” she snapped, chin lifting.

“No,” he said, voice dropping. “I think you’re scared of what you want.”

Her breath caught.

Andras leaned in, eyes flicking between hers. His hand brushed past her wrist, fingers slow, just enough to make her pulse misbehave.

“You were the storm once,” he murmured. “And now you act like glass. But I’ve been watching, Sirenelle. You’re still fire underneath.”

She didn’t step back.

“I’m not Blaine,” he whispered.

“Good,” she whispered back. “Because I’d destroy you.”

He smirked. “Try me.”

And then—

Boom.

A thunderclap outside. The lights flickered.

Their bodies didn’t move.

But their eyes were already touching.

And something inside her snapped.

“Unlock the door,” she said.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to admit it first.”

She exhaled. “Admit what?”

“That you’ve been thinking about me. The blood. The smile. The stare.”

Silence.

Then—

Her hand gripped his tie.

And she tugged.

Hard.

Their lips were inches apart now.

“I wasn’t thinking,” she said.

“I was.”

And in that charged space, lust breathing under every word, they stood— not kissing, not touching, not ready to run.

Yet.

But both of them knew.

The storm had already begun.

And then—

The lights died.

Complete blackout.

Only the rain outside and the storm between them remained.

She could feel his breath.

And in the dark, without the world watching, she didn’t pull away.

His lips grazed her jaw. Not the mouth. Not yet. Teasing. Deliberate.

She inhaled sharply.

“I hate you,” she whispered.

He smiled against her skin.

“No,” he murmured. “You hate that I know what you are underneath the cold.”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she reached up, fingers tangling in his wet hair.

“Still think I’m scared?”

“No,” he said. “But you’re dangerous. And I like danger.”

Then her lips brushed his.

Soft. Barely there.

Just enough to make him lose his breath.

She pulled back instantly.

“Now unlock the door.”

He chuckled, breathless.

As he turned to unlock it, she walked past him.

“I’ll still destroy you, Cruz.”

“Promise?”

She didn’t look back.

But her smirk was audible.

“Soon.”