Chapter 2

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

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