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Stan Rosado was not known for his academic prowess. Football, however, was another story entirely. On the field, he was untouchable. Coach Willis' star player, captain of the Herrington High football team. Friday nights belonged to him, the stadium lights illuminating his victories while the crowds chanted his name with unwavering enthusiasm. 

Which was exactly why his announcement had sent the entire school into a frenzy. He was quitting to focus on his grades. The news spread through the corridors faster than wildfire. Students whispered between classes, teachers exchanged confused glances in the staff room and half the football team wandered the halls looking as though someone had announced the end of the world. Coach Willis himself had reportedly spent twenty minutes trying to convince Stan he was making a mistake.

You, however, couldn't have cared less.

Herrington High revolved around football players and cheerleaders, neither of which had ever had much interest in you and the feeling was mutual. While everyone else debated what Stan's decision meant for the team's chances at the state championship, you were far more concerned with your chemistry assignment due on Friday and whether the library still had the history book you'd been trying to borrow for the past week.

It simply wasn't your problem. Unfortunately, something else soon became your problem. The crackling intercom had interrupted your English lesson halfway through Shakespeare, speaking your name following a rather ominous message.

“Please report to Principal Drake's office"

A dozen pairs of eyes had turned towards you immediately. Great. You hadn't done anything wrong, making  being summoned to the principal's office even more unsettling.

The familiar scent of coffee and paper greeted you as you stepped into Principal Drake's office. Sunlight filtered through the blinds behind her desk, casting thin golden stripes across stacks of folders and student files. A small clock ticked steadily on the wall, the only sound besides the rustling of papers as she looked up from her desk.

"There you are," Principal Drake said warmly, gesturing towards the chair opposite her. "Please, have a seat."

You slipped your bookbag off your shoulder and rested it carefully on your lap before sitting down, your eyebrows knitting together with quiet confusion. "You wanted to see me?"

She smiled politely, folding her hands together on top of the desk. "I did. As you're probably aware," She began, "Stan Rosado has decided to leave the football team."

You blinked. "Yeah... I've heard."

"I'm also sure you've heard that his grades aren't exactly where they need to be." That part wasn't exactly surprising. Stan wasn't stupid, at least not from what you'd seen, but academics had clearly never been his priority. Principal Drake continued,  "He wants to improve them. If he's serious about this decision, then he'll need help catching up." You nodded slowly, waiting for her to explain where this somehow involved you. She offered another small smile. "I'd like you to tutor him."

You stared at her for a moment, convinced you must have misheard. "...Me?"

"Yes."

You let out a short, incredulous laugh before shaking your head. "Not to be rude, Principal Drake," you began carefully, shifting your bag slightly on your lap, "but... why did you come to me?"

She tilted her head. "I'm sure Delilah would jump at the opportunity to tutor him," You continued. "They're practically attached at the hip."

Principal Drake's expression softened with a knowing sigh. She said your name gently, almost sympathetically. "Y/N... you're one of the best students this school has." 

You resisted the urge to sink lower into your chair. 

"You consistently earn straight A's," she went on. "You're never late for class, your teachers speak very highly of you, and you're patient." She exhaled, "As for Delilah..." she sighed again, choosing her words carefully. "We've had enough complaints regarding her behaviour recently that I'd rather not create the impression we're rewarding it. Whatever relationship she and Stan may have outside the classroom isn't something I'd like influencing this arrangement."

You couldn't exactly argue with that. You rubbed your forehead with a quiet sigh. "So... you want me to spend my afternoons trying to convince Herrington High's football golden boy that homework actually matters?"

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Principal Drake's mouth. "I believe you could phrase it a little more diplomatically than that."

You couldn't help smiling slightly yourself. The amusement quickly faded as reality settled back in; Tutoring Stan Rosado every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon. It certainly wasn't how you'd imagined spending the rest of the semester. After a long moment, you exhaled through your nose.

"...Alright."

Principal Drake looked pleasantly surprised.

"But," You added, raising a finger, "if I'm doing this, could I at least get some extra credit? I'm already juggling enough as it is."

"That's a fair request." She reached for a folder on her desk, making a quick note with her pen before looking back up. "I'll speak with your teachers and see what arrangements can be made. I can't promise anything yet, but I'll do what I can."

"Thank you." You smiled.

"I appreciate you agreeing to help." She gathered the scattered papers into a neat pile before offering you one final smile. "You're free to head back to class now."

You stood, slinging your backpack over one shoulder. As you reached the office door, you paused for a second. "So..." you asked, glancing back over your shoulder. "Does Stan actually know he's being tutored?"

Principal Drake smiled in a way that answered the question before she even spoke. "He will."

Living up to your reputation as Miss Never Late, you arrived at the library a full thirty minutes before your scheduled tutoring session. It wasn't intentional you simply hated being late. Besides, arriving early gave you time to prepare, or, more accurately, time to convince yourself you hadn't made a terrible mistake agreeing to this in the first place.

The library was unusually quiet for a Wednesday afternoon. Dust drifted lazily through beams of sunlight pouring in from the tall windows, illuminating endless rows of bookshelves that seemed to stretch forever. Somewhere in the distance, a librarian carefully reshelved returned books, the soft clunk of hardbacks against wood echoing faintly through the otherwise peaceful room.

Only a handful of students occupied the scattered tables. Most had their heads buried in textbooks, while another had fallen asleep behind a stack of encyclopaedias.

You claimed one of the larger tables near the back.

From your bag, you carefully laid everything out: your pencil case, a fresh spiral notebook, highlighters arranged by colour and several textbooks you'd grabbed from the philosophy and history shelves after asking Principle Duke what subjects Stan was currently struggling with after lunch.

One of them fell open to a bookmarked chapter. Aristotle. You sighed, none of it exactly screamed easy introduction. Still, it was better than calculus.

You uncapped a pen and began skimming the chapter, jotting down a few notes and questions that might make the material easier to understand. If you could break Aristotle's ideas into something less complicated  and more everyday English, maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

Your handwriting slowed and came to a halt, you leaned back in your chair. What were you doing? Your stomach had been in knots ever since Principal Drake volunteered your services. It was ridiculous, it’s just tutoring. Yet your imagination had spent the better part of the day inventing every possible worst-case scenario. Maybe Stan only agreed because Principal Drake made him, maybe he'd spend the entire session bored out of his mind, maybe he'd laugh at how organised you were, maybe he'd be exactly like the rest of his friends.

Over the years, more than a few members of his so-called posse had found endless amusement in making you the punchline, nothing especially original. They'd laugh when your hand shot up too eagerly in class and mimic the way you always carried three textbooks against your chest when you failed to shove them into your already stuffed bag.

You'd never actually known whether Stan joined in. If anything, he'd always seemed elsewhere. Whenever you'd looked in his direction – which admittedly wasn't often – he'd either been talking to Coach Willis, making out with Delilah, or staring out of classroom windows as though he'd rather be literally anywhere else.

Come to think of it...you weren't even sure you'd ever spoken to him. You'd sat behind him in American History for almost an entire semester. The closest the two of you had come to a conversation was when he'd once turned around to borrow a pencil, only for Gabe Santora to toss him one before you had the chance.

Your thoughts scattered as footsteps approached.

"Y/N?" You jumped so violently your pen slipped from your fingers. "What?" You blurted, eyes snapping upwards.

Standing beside the table was Stan Rosado. For a second, your brain completely forgot how to function. You'd never really looked at him before. In class, he'd always been another broad pair of shoulders occupying the desk in front of yours.

He was taller than you'd realised, his worn letterman jacket hanging open over a faded grey T-shirt and a pair of well-worn jeans. Sandy brown hair curled messily beneath the fluorescent lights, looking as though he'd run his hand through it a dozen times already that day. A few loose strands had fallen over his forehead, refusing to stay put.

His features were softer than the arrogant football-star reputation suggested. Blue eyes studied you with quiet uncertainty rather than confidence, and there was something unexpectedly tired about them, as if he hadn't been sleeping particularly well lately. There was a faint scrape healing across one cheek, and another small bruise lingered near his jaw from Friday night's game.

"You are my tutor, right?" He asked, eyebrows pulling together slightly. His voice snapped you back to reality.

"Yes." You answered quickly, a little too quickly. You cleared your throat. "Sorry. I was... somewhere else." A nervous laugh escaped before you could stop it.

Stan gave an awkward half-smile. "It's okay."

He slid into the chair opposite you before shrugging off his backpack, letting it fall beside the table with a dull thud. His letterman jacket followed, revealing a fitted navy T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders built from years of football training. Strong forearms rested casually on the tabletop as he leaned back in his chair, absently rolling the sleeves up a little.

He noticed the growing collection of books between you, his face falling. "...That's a lot of books."

"It looks worse than it is." You reassured him, though even you weren't entirely convinced.

Stan eyed the thick philosophy textbook. "'Introduction to Aristotle,'" he read aloud, grimacing. "Yeah... that's not exactly helping."

"It was on your syllabus." You shrugged.

"I know." He rubbed the back of his neck with an embarrassed chuckle. "I just kinda hoped you'd tell me I didn't have to know any of it."

"I'm afraid that's not how tutoring works." You grabbed the pen that you had dropped earlier and put the cap on with a click.

"Damn." He joked, running a hand through his curly hair. Despite yourself, you smiled. Stan caught it and pointed accusingly. "You're laughing already."

"I'm not." Your cheeks flooded from the accusation.

"You are." Stan smiled. 

"I'm smiling." You looked away, rearranging some books and papers on the table to look preoccupied, trying to avoid his gaze. 

"Same thing." The corner of his own mouth twitched upwards. For the first time since he'd sat down, some of the tension eased.

You opened your notebook. "Alright," you said, turning it towards him. "Let's start with something simple."

He groaned dramatically, dropping his forehead onto the table with a muffled thunk. "I don't like the sound of that."

"It's Aristotle." You shuffled a textbook in front of you.

"I like it even less now." He sighed. 

You couldn't help laughing this time. "Stan."

He lifted one eye to look at you. "What?"

"Who was Aristotle?"  You questioned.

He stared at you for a long moment. "...Greek?"

"That's... actually a good start."

His head lifted slightly. "Wait, seriously?"

"Seriously."

A grin spread across his face, boyish and unexpectedly genuine. "Well," he said, folding his arms with mock confidence, "I'm basically passing already."

You shook your head, smiling as you wrote Aristotle - Greek philosopher across the top of the page.

The tutoring sessions quickly settled into a routine. At first, the conversations rarely drifted beyond whatever subject happened to be sitting between them. Aristotle had eventually given way to chemistry, American history and the occasional algebra worksheet, each session ending with Stan understanding just a little more than he had when he'd arrived.

To your surprise, he actually tried.

He wasn't naturally academic but once he stopped pretending not to care, he picked things up faster than you'd expected. He asked questions without worrying if they sounded stupid, scribbled messy notes that only he seemed capable of deciphering and celebrated every correct answer as though he'd won another football game.

More than once, the librarian had shushed him after he'd muttered a particularly enthusiastic, "Yes!" a little too loudly. Somewhere between balancing chemical equations and explaining the causes of the American Civil War, the awkwardness faded. Stan started arriving with two cans of soda instead of one. Sometimes he'd spend the first five minutes complaining about whichever assignment had been dumped on him that day. Other times he'd ask how your own classes were going, genuinely listening as you rambled about upcoming exams or teachers you'd sworn had made homework deliberately impossible.

Outside the library, things changed too. The first time it happened, you were halfway across the hallway when Stan caught your eye. He nodded, just a simple dip of his head before disappearing into the crowd. You spent the rest of the day wondering if you'd imagined it. The next Tuesday, he passed you outside English. "Hey." You'd been so caught off guard that your reply came out embarrassingly squeaky. By Thursday, he'd started smiling as well.

Your brain, however, appeared determined to make matters infinitely more complicated. It was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the fact that Tuesdays and Thursdays had somehow become the days you put actual effort into getting ready. You told yourself it was a coincidence that you simply had more time in the mornings. The fact that you suddenly cared whether your hair was behaving was entirely unrelated or that you'd started wearing a purple jumper instead of your usual oversized hoodie because Stan had once casually remarked that purple "looked nice on you" was completely insignificant.

Your heart, unfortunately, disagreed. Every time he smiled at you in the corridor, it kicked against your ribs with alarming enthusiasm. Whenever he leaned a little too close while looking over your notes, your stomach seemed to forget how to function altogether. Maybe you were getting ill, all the late nights studying had finally caught up with you. Possibly prolonged exposure to chemistry fumes had done irreversible damage. That had to be it, there was simply no other explanation.

Thursday arrived with crisp autumn air and skies the colour of slate. The trees lining the school grounds had begun shedding their leaves, scattering shades of amber and crimson across the pavement. Halloween decorations had started appearing in classroom windows, and someone had somehow convinced the librarian to place tiny plastic pumpkins around the front desk.

You arrived at the library ten minutes early, as always. This week's topic was chemistry, if there was one subject you could teach in your sleep, it was this one. You'd already filled half a page with neatly organised reaction diagrams by the time familiar footsteps echoed between the bookshelves.

"You're early again," Stan said, dropping his backpack beside the chair opposite yours.

"I always am." You smiled proudly. 

"I know." He smiled as he sat down. "I was just hoping, one day, I'd beat you here."

"You'd have to leave yesterday." You joked.

He laughed quietly. "Fair point."

The session passed quicker than either of you expected and by the end of the hour, he'd somehow managed to answer almost every practice question correctly.

"There," You said proudly, tapping the worksheet. "Ninety percent."

His eyebrows shot upwards. "No way."

"You only got one wrong." You smiled genuinely. 

He stared at the paper for a second before looking back at you. "I actually did that?"

"You actually did."

A grin spread across his face. "Guess I'm smarter than Coach thinks."

"I wasn't going to say it." You sarcastically said.

"You were thinking it." 

"I definitely wasn't." You shook your head, moving your pen into your pencil case.

"You were." He prodded.

"I really wasn't." You continued to joke. 

His laughter echoed softly through the otherwise silent library before he remembered where he was and quickly lowered his voice. "Sorry." The librarian looked over her glasses anyway.

Both of you immediately pretended to be fascinated by your notebooks until she returned to stamping books behind the desk. Only then did you begin packing away your things. You slipped your pens into your pencil case while Stan stuffed loose sheets into his backpack with considerably less organisation.

Stan cleared his throat, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes for what felt like the first time all afternoon. "So..." He hesitated. "I'm not really sure if it's your thing..." You waited. "...But Gabe's throwing a Halloween party tomorrow night." He finally looked at you. "I was wondering if... maybe you'd want to come?"

For a second, your brain simply stopped working. Stan Rosado…was inviting you…to a party.Your heart gave a spectacular leap. "Oh," you managed, trying very hard not to sound as excited as you suddenly felt. "Yeah." A smile spread before you could stop it. "Yeah, I'd love to."

The fact that you had less than twenty-four hours to come up with a costume was enough to make you consider pretending to be sick.

You stood in the middle of your bedroom with your hands planted on your hips, surrounded by piles of clothes that had somehow migrated from your wardrobe to every available surface. T-shirts hung from the edge of your bed, old Halloween accessories littered the floor, and a cardboard box labelled MISC. sat open in the corner after you'd spent the better part of an hour rummaging through it with little success.

With an exasperated sigh, you shoved another jumper back onto the shelf before your gaze caught on something wedged between two folded hoodies. A faded Superman T-shirt. You pulled it free, holding it up by the shoulders. The bright emblem had cracked with age after years of being washed, but it was still recognisable. Clark Kent.

"...That'll do."

Within half an hour, you'd pieced everything together. A crisp white button-up borrowed from the back of your wardrobe. A plain black skirt. The Superman shirt hidden beneath the neatly buttoned blouse, ready for the dramatic reveal nobody would probably ask for. Your old prescription glasses (thankfully the lenses were still clear enough to wear) and, after a reluctant conversation with your father, one of his navy ties.

He'd only agreed after delivering a ten-minute lecture about "mixed parties," teenage boys, curfews and responsibility. By the time he'd finished, you'd almost forgotten why you'd gone to him in the first place. 

You caught your reflection in the mirror one last time. It wasn't bad, actually, it was kind of cute. Your smile only lasted a second. What if everyone else wears something amazing? What if nobody dresses up? What if I'm the only idiot in costume? What if they expect me to drink? What if – 

The sharp ring of the doorbell cut clean through the spiral of thoughts.

Your heart jumped. "Oh, God."

You hurried downstairs, nearly missing the final step in your haste. Your shoes waited beside the front door where you'd left them earlier. You jammed your feet into them, smoothed your hair with trembling fingers and inhaled slowly.

You opened the door. Stan Rosado stood on your porch wearing a 05 sports jersey, a chain hanging round his neck and his hair peeking through from under a red baseball cap.

It took all of three seconds before you burst into laughter. 

He grinned immediately. "What?" He asked, spreading his arms. "You don't appreciate art?"

"You..." You pointed at him, still laughing. "You're Pretty Fly for a White Guy."

His eyebrows shot up. "I honestly didn't think you'd get it."

"I need music while I study," you replied.

"Right." He folded his arms with an amused smile. "Because that's what normal people do."

"It is normal." You raised your eyebrow.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "Studying for fun definitely isn't."

You rolled your eyes dramatically. Stan laughed, the sound warm enough to loosen some of the knot that had been sitting in your stomach all afternoon. You glanced over your shoulder.

"I'm heading out!" You called into the house.

Your mother answered first, reminding you to have fun. Your father immediately followed with, "Be home by midnight."

"Dad..." You groaned.

"No later." He said sternly.

"I know." You responded, already edging towards the door.

Stan hid another smile as you closed the door behind you. "You ready?" He asked.

You nodded.

Waiting at the end of the driveway sat a faded red pickup truck. You weren't sure what you'd expected Stan to drive. The slightly battered pickup somehow suited him perfectly and appeared to have been around long before either of you had started high school.

He jogged around to the driver's side while you climbed into the passenger seat.

The interior smelled faintly of pine air freshener, old leather and something sweet you couldn't quite place.

As the engine rumbled to life, reality began creeping back in. This was actually happening. You were going to a party. Your first real party. You fiddled absent-mindedly with the sleeve of your shirt.

"So..." Stan broke the comfortable silence as he pulled away from the kerb. "Big Superman fan?"

You smiled. "My parents used to put the films on all the time when I was little."

"Seriously?" He let out a small chuckle. 

"Every Christmas." You nodded.

The conversation drifted comfortably after that, music playing quietly through the speakers, headlights sweeping across sleepy suburban streets while autumn leaves skittered over the road whenever another car passed.

The closer you got, the harder your pulse hammered. By the time Stan turned onto a brightly lit residential street, your palms had grown clammy. The house was impossible to miss, cars lined both sides of the road, music pulsed through the walls loudly enough that you could feel the bass from inside the truck. People spilled across the front lawn, laughing in clusters, costumes ranging from elaborate to hastily assembled.

Your stomach twisted. Stan shifted into park before looking across at you. "You okay?"

You realised you'd been staring. "Oh." You forced a smile. "Yeah." He didn't look entirely convinced.

"It'll be fun," You added, more for yourself than for him. You reached for your seatbelt. Please let it be fun.

The music hit you before you even reached the front porch. It seemed to pulse through the air itself, the bass vibrating beneath your shoes as if the entire house had developed a heartbeat. Coloured lights flashed behind the curtains, silhouettes moving in front of them in uneven bursts. Every few seconds the front door swung open, spilling laughter and warm air into the chilly October evening before slamming shut again.

You lingered at the bottom of the steps. Stan noticed you'd stopped walking. "You coming?"

You looked up. He was already halfway up the porch steps, one hand tucked into the pocket of his jeans as though arriving at parties like this was as ordinary as going to the supermarket.

You forced your feet forward. "Yeah." The wooden steps creaked beneath your weight, your stomach tightened with every one.

Inside, the house was chaos. Music blared from speakers balanced precariously on top of a cabinet in the hallway, loud enough that you could barely hear your own thoughts. The smell of cheap beer mixed with perfume, aftershave and the unmistakable scent of pizza that had long since gone cold. Every room you caught a glimpse of seemed impossibly full; people sitting on kitchen counters, dancing in the living room, leaning over the banister to shout at friends downstairs.

Someone brushed past your shoulder without apologising. Another person nearly walked straight into you before muttering a distracted "Sorry." You instinctively stepped closer to Stan.

He glanced sideways at you. "You alright?"

"There's so many people." Your eyes widened.

He laughed softly. "You'll get used to it."

"I sincerely doubt that." You shook your head.

He smiled to himself before gently steering you towards the kitchen. The room was marginally quieter. A collection of drinks covered the kitchen island, surrounded by teenagers helping themselves without asking. 

"I'll grab us something," Stan shouted over the music.

"Oh, you don't have– "

A moment later he returned holding two red plastic cups.

"I have absolutely no idea what's in these."

You accepted yours carefully. "...That's not reassuring."

"It's probably fine." Stan tried to reassure you.

"That's exactly what people say before something isn't fine."

Stan laughed, shaking his head. "You worry too much."

The conversation drifted easily from teachers to Halloween costumes to your extensive knowledge of Christoper Reeves’ Superman films, you almost forgot where you were. Suddenly, someone shouted Stan's name.

"Rosado!"

He turned instinctively. Across the room, three boys waved him over.

"Man!" One of them yelled. "Get over here!"

Stan looked between them and you. "I'll be, like, two minutes."

You smiled. "Go."

"You sure?" His eyebrows furrowed, not totally convinced you would be okay by yourself.

"I'm not going anywhere." You held your hands up in a shrug.

He hesitated, then nodded. "I'll find you."

"You don't have to babysit me, I’ll be fine." You say, gripping your drink tightly. 

"I'm not." Stan said, a little offended.

"You kind of are." You respond.

He rolled his eyes with a grin. "I'll still find you." He disappeared into the crowd.

He didn't come back in two minutes and at first, you didn't mind. You wandered through the downstairs rooms, careful not to get in anyone's way. Costumes blurred together beneath flashing lights; witches, ghosts, movie characters, superheroes. Somewhere upstairs someone had started singing along to the music despite being spectacularly off-key.

You recognised a handful of faces from school. None recognised you, or if they did, they didn't acknowledge it. You ended up beside a bookshelf in the living room, clutching your drink. You looked down into the cup, the ice cubes had already begun melting and you still hadn't actually tasted it.

You'd imagined your first drink would happen eventually. Maybe at university and with close friends, not here surrounded by strangers making out against walls and shouting over music.

You lifted the cup to your lips, the smell alone made you hesitate. You pretended to take a sip instead, nobody seemed to notice. Relief washed over you. Every few minutes, when everyone nearby was distracted, you tipped a little more into the decorative fake plant beside the bookshelf. The poor thing was going to be absolutely hammered by the end of the night.

"...I swear, man." The familiar voice made your ears prick up. Stan. You hadn't even realised you'd wandered into the hallway beside the dining room. The wall separated you from whoever was talking.

"I don't know why everyone's making such a big deal out of it." Another voice answered. Gabe, if you remembered correctly. "You show up with some girl nobody's ever seen you hang around before?" Gabe scoffed. "After breaking up with Delilah? Yeah, people are gonna ask questions."

"God," Stan muttered. "Can you just drop it?"

"I'm asking because I'm curious." Gabe responded.

"You always ask because you're nosy." He retorted.

A couple of people squeezed past you in the hallway, too caught up in their own conversation to notice you standing rigid against the wall.

Gabe laughed. "So what's her deal?"

"I don't know." Stan sounded tired. "I've never really seen her hanging around anyone."

"So?" He prodded.

"I just..." He exhaled heavily. "I felt bad for her."

The words landed like a punch to your gut. Your fingers tightened around the cup, heat rushed to your face. What had you been thinking? That someone like Stan Rosado had actually wanted to spend time with you? You thought about every conversation you'd replayed in your head over the past few weeks. How embarrassing. How painfully, humiliatingly embarrassing.

Behind the wall, Gabe snorted. "So she's a charity case?"

"Shut up," Stan snapped immediately.

"No, seriously–" 

"I said shut up." He cut Gabe off.

You didn't stay long enough to hear the rest. The cup slipped from your fingers onto a nearby shelf. Without another thought, you pushed your way into the sea of bodies. Your vision had blurred, whether from the flashing lights or the tears gathering in your eyes, you couldn't tell.

All you knew was that every laugh sounded like it was about you, every glance felt like pity.

The front door couldn't come quickly enough. Cold autumn air hit your face like a slap as you stumbled outside. You breathed deeply but it didn't help. Behind you, the party continued as though nothing had happened. As though your entire evening (and perhaps your entire perception of the past few weeks) hadn't just quietly fallen apart behind a dining room wall.

You wrapped your arms around yourself and started walking, the music fading with every step into the cool darkness of the suburban street. The first drop of rain landed on the back of your hand and within moments, the sky opened, rain coming without warning.

Within moments your shirt clung to your skin, the white fabric becoming heavy against your shoulders. Water dripped from the ends of your hair, your glasses speckling with droplets until the world blurred into soft halos of yellow streetlights and dark shadows.

A hollow laugh escaped your lips. You didn't bother trying to run, there wasn't much point now.

The neighbourhood stretched quietly around you, almost eerily peaceful compared to the chaos you'd just escaped. The music from the house was already beginning to fade behind you, swallowed by the steady hiss of rain against tarmac and rooftops. Leaves skittered across the pavement in little bursts whenever the wind picked up.

Your shoes squelched with every step. You hugged your arms tighter around yourself, trying to ignore the lump lodged painfully in your throat. You should've known. That thought repeated itself over and over until it became almost rhythmic. You should've known.

Behind you a voice yelled;  "Hey!" The voice barely registered so you kept walking. "Hey!” It was closer now.

Your shoulders stiffened. No, please don't. Your name rang through the empty street. You stopped and closed your eyes for a second, drawing one shaky breath before slowly turning around.

Stan was sprinting down the pavement. His ridiculous shirt was soaked through, plastered against him by the rain. His trainers splashed through puddles without any concern, cap forgotten at the party, his curls flattened messily against his forehead.

When he finally caught up, he bent over slightly, breathing hard.

"You..." He panted, trying to catch his breath, "...walk really fast."

You stared at him, rainwater dripped from the end of your nose. "You didn't have to follow me."

"I know." He nodded from his bent over position.

"Then why did you?" You shook your head.

He straightened, his breathing was still uneven. "Because you left."

You laughed bitterly. "Congratulations on your observational skills."

The rain continued relentlessly around you, bouncing off parked cars and pooling in the cracks of the pavement. Neither of you moved.

"You heard us." He spoke, it wasn't really much of a question

You looked away. "I heard enough."

Stan shut his eyes. "...Shit." He scrubbed a hand over his face, though it achieved very little considering he was already drenched. "I didn't mean–"

"No." You cut him off quietly. "I know exactly what you meant."

"I don't think you do."

"You invited me because you felt sorry for me." He opened his mouth but you didn't let him speak. "You looked at me and thought, 'She doesn't have any friends. She probably sits at home every weekend. I should be nice.'"  The words spilled out faster now. "Congratulations." You gave a humourless laugh. "It worked." You choked out a sob. "I actually fucking believed you actually wanted me here."

"I did." He said earnestly.

"No." You shook your head. "I heard you."

"You heard one sentence." He argued. 

"I heard enough." You uttered. 

"You didn't hear all of it." He tried to climb out of the hole he had dug himself, but you are relentless. 

"What difference would it make?" You raised your voice. 

"It makes a huge–" Stan was quickly cut off. 

"No!" The word echoed louder than you'd intended, you swallowed hard. "I spent weeks wondering why someone like you kept talking to me." Your voice had dropped almost to a whisper. "I thought... maybe..." You couldn't finish the sentence, it felt too pathetic to say aloud.

Stan's face softened, something flickered behind his eyes. He took one careful step closer. "You thought maybe what?"

You laughed weakly. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me." He spoke. 

"No, it doesn't." You ran your hand through your hair. 

"It does." He said. 

"No, Stan." Your voice cracked. "It really doesn't."

Neither of you seemed willing to move. The rain soaked through every layer of clothing until you were both shivering almost imperceptibly.

Finally Stan spoke. "Gabe's an idiot."

You blinked. "...What?"

"He's been asking me about you for weeks."

You frowned. "What?"

"He wouldn't shut up." Stan rubbed the back of his neck, clearly frustrated. "He kept asking why we were spending so much time together." You stared at him. "I didn't know what to tell him."

"So you told him you pitied me." You angrily spoke.

"I told him the first thing that came into my head." 

"You literally said–" This time is was Stan who cut you off. 

"I panicked." He ran both hands through his wet hair, immediately realising how pointless the gesture was. "I knew if I told Gabe the truth he'd never leave me alone."

You folded your arms. "The truth?"

He let out a long breath. "You are unbelievably smart."

"I fail to see–" You were cut off.

"And somehow..." A disbelieving smile tugged at the corner of his mouth despite everything. "...You're completely fucking oblivious."

You frowned harder. "What are you talking about?"

Stan looked at you for a long moment as though debating whether to say something. Then he laughed once under his breath.

"I like talking to you."

You blinked. "I know."

"No." He shook his head. "I don't think you do." Another step closer, close enough now that you could see the tiny droplets clinging to his eyelashes. "I wait outside your classes because I want to." Your heartbeat quickened. "I ask if you want lifts home because I want an excuse to spend another ten minutes with you."

Your mouth had gone completely dry.

"I invited you tonight because..." He hesitated. "...I wanted you to come with me."

Your heart hammered painfully against your ribs.

"I asked you because I was hoping you'd say yes."

The words hung between you. You searched his face and for the first time since you'd met him, there wasn't a trace of confidence there. "I've liked you for a while," He admitted, his voice barely louder than the rain. "Long enough that everyone else seems to have fucking noticed except you."

Your lips parted, nothing came out, every thought you'd had on the walk here seemed to unravel all at once, replaced by complete and utter disbelief.

"I..."

Stan gave a tiny, self-conscious laugh. "See? That's usually the part where someone says something."

You looked at him for another heartbeat, words failed you completely. So instead you reached forward, caught the front of his soaked shirt in your hands and kissed him.

The first thing you noticed was the pain. A brutal ache settled deep in your jaw and behind your eyes, blooming stronger the more consciousness clawed its way back into your body.

Another hangover, fucking great.

Unfortunately for you, this was not a hangover.

You tried to move - to roll over, stretch, bury your face back into your pillow and allow slumber to take you for a measly ten more minutes - but your hands wouldn’t budge. Rather, sharp metal bit into your wrists hard enough to make you hiss around whatever had been shoved into your mouth.

Your stomach dropped and awareness came rushing back all at once. There was something tight around your jaw – a gag, forcing your mouth painfully open – and your clothes clung awkwardly to your skin.

Then something rough shifted against your face. A bag, one you hadn’t even noticed in your half-conscious state, was ripped violently from over your head.

Light hit you like a boulder. You squeezed your eyes shut instinctively, hissing as brightness stabbed through your skull and worsened the pounding already building behind your temples. Tears burned at the corners of your eyes as your vision adjusted in painful increments, your heartbeat climbing fast enough to make your chest ache.

What the hell is happening?

Shapes slowly sharpened around you. Dark wood, stupidly expensive looking velvet furniture and way too many people. Then recognition hit, you were in the game room in the Danforth mansion.

Your breathing turned ragged as panic settled hard and ugly into your chest. Four separate groups filled the room, gathered in quiet clusters like this was any ordinary evening. Faces you recognised sat among strangers you didn’t, likely additions to families that had grown in the years since you ran, wealth dripped from every inch of them. Families that had sold their souls to Satan for a chance at world domination.

You pulled violently at the restraints, the chair scraping beneath you as panic finally exploded. A muffled scream tore from your throat around the gag, desperate and useless.

Movement at the front of the room pulled your attention. The Lawyer stood calmly behind his podium, placing the gargantuan book of Mr Le Bail onto the stand with unsettling care. The sight of it made nausea twist sharply in your stomach.

Then he said your name. “I am sure you are aware of why your presence was requested today.” His tone remained maddeningly even, untouched by emotion, even as you shook hard enough to nearly tip the chair over. “Your father has recently passed, assuming you know, and you are now next in line to become the head of your house.”

You barely listened, instead, your gaze darted frantically around the room, desperate for an out, a familiar face – someone who might actually help you. Then your eyes landed on the person sitting directly in your eyeline. Older, bigger…much bigger.

Broad shoulders stretched beneath dark fabric, posture relaxed in a way that somehow felt more dangerous. Time had sharpened him into something intimidating.

Titus Danforth.

Fuck.

“However,” The Lawyer continued. “Due to your unfortunate departure from our company, and your father previously holding the head council seat, this is a very special circumstance.” The blood rushing through your ears made his voice feel distant. “When succession is contested without direct inheritance, Mr Le Bail chooses a game, for that the successor will win the head council seat.” His lips twitched faintly. “Hide and seek.”

The sound that escaped you came out somewhere between a scream and a sob. No, this couldn’t be happening. You had only ever seen hide and seek happen during marriages. You knew what it meant and you knew what happened to people who lost. Your head dropped as tears spilled freely, shoulders shaking violently enough to hurt. You had just gotten your life together. A tiny apartment in New York that you paid for yourself, not your father. A job you actually loved. Friends who cared about you, not your money or your family name.

A low chuckle cut through your panic. Titus. Of course it was Titus. The sound rolled low and dark through the room, entirely too amused by your terror.

Your father and Chester Danforth had been close growing up, which meant you spent far too much time around the Danforth twins. They were at least ten years older than you, but back then, being included by them made you feel impossibly grown up.

What definitely hadn’t helped was the stupid little crush you developed on Titus.

It had been harmless at first. Embarrassing, maybe.

Then you turned twenty and found out what the meetings actually were and more importantly what your family really was…so you ran like hell and whatever childish feelings you had dissolved into nothing like smoke. Except, Titus is smoke and smoke never really leaves.

“The game will commence at 3:21 p.m.” The Lawyer continued, as though he were discussing dinner plans instead of your impending murder. “You will have until dawn to survive. If you succeed, you will be granted the seat of head of the council. If you do not, the seat will be awarded to the head of the house responsible for your demise.”

Your breathing came ragged around the gag, saliva pooling painfully in your mouth as panic made it harder to think. As though sensing your distress, The Lawyer flicked his hand dismissively. You were forced upright as footsteps approached from behind. The gag loosened suddenly and you gasped in air so fast it hurt, the breath escaping in a broken sob.

“Any questions?” The Lawyer asked.

“Oh, fuck you!” You screamed immediately, voice cracking as you tugged violently against the cuffs, pain shooting through your wrists. “Let me go, you crazy pieces of shit!”

“He said to ask questions, Bunny.” His voice settled over you slow and dark, his gaze feeling molten against your skin. “Fuck off!” You snapped, panic making your voice shake. “Please, I left my family ages ago! I haven’t seen my father in over ten years!”

“You have to play.” The Lawyer replied calmly, gesturing toward the ancient book. “Those are the rules.”

“Fuck the rules and fuck all of you lunatics!” Your throat already burned from shouting. Desperation clawed at your chest as your eyes darted frantically across the room. “I’m not playing! Please, Ursula, help me!”

The woman you once adored didn’t even look at you. Her silky blonde curls framed her neutral expression, hands folded delicately in her lap as her eyes stayed fixed firmly on the floor.

“Ursula…” You tried again, weaker this time, your voice cracking around the edges. “Please.” Nothing, not even a glance and no acknowledgment that she had once been the person you trusted most in this room.

“Pernillia, if you could.” The Lawyer’s voice sliced cleanly through the silence. Movement stirred somewhere behind you.

“Wait.” Titus spoke, the single word making your stomach drop. “I want to do it.” Titus stood slowly, broad shoulders rolling as though he had all the time in the world. The faint amusement on his face somehow made everything worse, his expression too calm and comfortable for someone discussing your inevitable suffering. The room shifted around him subtly, attention moving as he approached.

You pulled harder against the restraints on instinct, panic clawing violently up your throat. “Get away from me, you dick!” You snapped, voice sharp with fear, though it trembled despite yourself. The metal cuffs bit painfully into your wrists as you twisted away from him as much as the chair allowed.

Titus only chuckled. “Still got that mouth on you.” He mused, crouching slightly until he was eye level with you. Up close, he looked impossibly different from the boy you remembered. There was something unreadable in his expression as his gaze dragged over your face, lingering long enough to make heat and dread twist together uncomfortably in your stomach.

“I want you to know something.” Titus said quietly, voice lowering enough that it almost felt private despite the room full of people watching. Your pulse thundered painfully in your ears. “When this starts…” A faint smile pulled at his mouth. “I’ll be the one to get you.”

“No!” You jerked violently against the chair. “Stay the fuck away from me!” Pernillia stepped behind you, her hand catching your shoulder. Something sharp pierced the side of your neck, pain flared suddenly.

Your hand instinctively tried to move, but the restraints held firm as panic surged all over again. The edges of the room blurred. Your heartbeat slowed strangely, body turning heavy all at once. Titus stayed in front of you, maddeningly calm, his face becoming harder to focus on with every passing second. The lights smeared into something dizzying, voices turned muffled, darkness crawled at the edges of your vision. The last thing you saw was Titus watching you and then everything went black.

You awoke groggily on the lush green grass of the manor gardens, dampness already seeping through the thin fabric of your shorts.

For one blissfully disorienting second, your mind stayed blank. Then it all came rushing back, your eyes snapped open, you sat up too quickly, dizziness crashing over you hard enough to make your stomach churn. The world tilted unpleasantly as you pressed a shaky hand into the grass to steady yourself, your breath catching in your throat.

Birdsong drifted faintly overhead, carried lazily through the breeze as leaves whispered against one another in the trees. Somewhere nearby, water trickled softly from one of the garden fountains, the peaceful sound almost mocking in comparison to the panic clawing up your chest. The manor stood behind you, towering and dark against the early afternoon sky.

So the hunt had begun.

Your body scrambled to catch up with your mind as you shoved yourself off the ground, only for your socks to immediately slip against the slick grass beneath you. The freshly watered lawn gave way under your feet and your stomach lurched as you nearly hit the ground again.

“Damn–”

You caught yourself clumsily and forced your legs to move. Your lungs burned as you bolted across the gardens, pulse hammering violently against your ribs hard enough to hurt. You needed to get to the woods, remembering enough from childhood to know the grounds were too open. Your breaths came sharp and uneven as you sprinted, damp socks soaking through almost instantly. Gravel dug painfully into the soles of your feet, twigs snapping beneath hurried steps as adrenaline pushed you faster.

Had they locked the gates? Could you even make it to the road? Did you have enough time?

The second you crossed into the treeline, branches clawed at your bare arms. Sharp twigs scraped angry lines against your skin while leaves snagged in your hair. You shoved deeper into the woods without direction, without a plan beyond away.

Your lungs screamed, legs burned, tears blurred your vision, hot and humiliating as panic made it harder to breathe.

Get it together. Think! You knew the estate…sort of.

Enough summers spent dragged here as a kid had to count for something. There was the greenhouse somewhere east of the gardens, the lake deeper in the woods or hidden servants’ paths woven between trees.

Could you hide? Your stomach twisted. No, Titus knew this place better than you.

'I’ll be the one to get you. 'The memory of his voice settled unpleasantly in your chest.

God, you hated him. Hated how calm he sounded, hated the amusement in his voice, hated the way he looked at you before you blacked out like this was inevitable or that he already knew how it ended.

A branch snapped hard across your cheek. “Shit!” You stumbled, grabbing desperately at a tree trunk to stop yourself from eating dirt. Your chest heaved painfully, lungs burning as you fought to pull in enough air. Think, actually think. Running blindly wasn’t sustainable. You needed somewhere to hide where they wouldn’t immediately look.

Then voices, faint and distant, but right behind you. You moved before your brain could catch up. Branches whipped against your bare legs as you shoved deeper through the trees, lungs burning hard enough to feel raw. Every breath scraped painfully against your throat, panic keeping your body moving long after exhaustion had started clawing at your muscles. Somewhere behind you came the distant crunch of footsteps, low voices carried through the wind.

“Crap–”

You clocked it. The resort. The Danforth-owned monstrosity built at the edge of the estate. Technically separate from the manor, though everyone knew it wasn’t really. Wealthy guests stayed there during gatherings, investors rented the top floors and council members used the private conference spaces whenever the mansion wasn’t enough.

More importantly you knew that place, like really knew it. Not the polished guest-facing version with crystal chandeliers and overpriced champagne. The back hallways, employee corridors because when you were younger, bored out of your mind waiting for your father to finish meeting after meeting, you used to disappear there. Sometimes to avoid the endless ‘how is studying?’ or ‘do you have a boyfriend yet?’, other times to feel like a rebellious teenager by sneaking one of your fathers cigarettes. Mostly because no one ever looked for you there.

Your pulse kicked harder.

If you could get there –

A sharp crack split through the air. Something slammed into the tree beside you, bark exploding in a spray of splinters. You flinched hard, stumbling sideways as the sound finally caught up to you. A gunshot, another rang out somewhere behind you.

“You bitch!” A voice echoed faintly through the trees.

Panic nearly stopped your heart. “Oh, fuck this!”

You took off running once more, branches scratched at your skin as you shoved through the undergrowth, adrenaline hitting hard enough to make your hands shake. You barely registered the shape stepping into your path before you slammed straight into a solid chest.

A hand caught your arm hard enough to stop you.

“Bueno, ahí lo tienes, chica.”

Ignacio El Caído.

Even in the middle of a fucking manhunt, he looked absurdly expensive. Gold flashed at his wrists and fingers, rings catching the fading sunlight while his silk shirt sat half-open like he’d wandered out here for cocktails instead of murder. You remembered him vaguely from childhood dinners; loud, flashy, perpetually dramatic. Unfortunately, he had also somehow raised the most insufferable children known to mankind.

“Pequeña puta,” Ignacio sighed, almost disappointed. “You’re making this difficult.”

The knife appeared fast, you reacted faster. Pure instinct sent you ducking as metal flashed through the air where your face had been a second earlier. You stumbled backward, slipping against damp leaves before crashing hard onto your back, air punching from your lungs.

“Puta madre, stop moving!” Ignacio snapped, already moving toward you.

Oh, absolutely the fuck not.

He raised the knife overhead again, sunlight glinting cruelly against the blade. Your body moved before panic could freeze it, you rolled. The knife plunged deep into the dirt where your chest had been.

“Shit – !” You lashed out blindly, your sock-covered foot connecting hard with Ignacio’s knee. He swore, stumbling just enough. You scrambled upright, slipping once before forcing yourself forward. Branches tore at your clothes as you bolted deeper through the trees, lungs screaming, pulse hammering wildly against your ribs.

“Get back here!” Ignacio shouted somewhere behind you.

Something caught, a sharp sting ripped across your side. You gasped, nearly folding in on yourself as pain bloomed hot beneath your ribs. Your hand flew instinctively toward it and came away damp.

“No, no, no – ”

The knife, he must have clipped you. Panic threatened to overtake reason entirely, but you forced your legs to keep moving. Your breathing turned ragged as you pushed harder, ignoring the ache spreading through your side and the dizziness beginning to creep in around the edges.

The trees finally began to thin. Stone pathways emerged first, then decorative hedges, then lights. Warm golden light spilled from the towering windows; the hotel.

Relief hit hard enough to nearly buckle your knees. You ducked low, cutting around the side of the building toward the employee entrance tucked near deliveries and staff parking, still smelling faintly of cigarettes and industrial cleaner. Thank God. The door gave beneath your shaking hand. Warmth hit you immediately, the buzz of fluorescent lights overhead felt strangely comforting after the chaos outside. Cleaning carts sat abandoned in corners, boxes stacked haphazardly beside supply rooms, everything looked painfully normal.

You stood there for half a second, swaying. Then instinct kicked back in; left down maintenance, past laundry, past the old break room, down the narrow corridor no guest had any reason to know existed. Your corridor.

Only then did your legs finally give out. You slid against the wall until you hit the floor hard, wincing as pain caught up all at once now that adrenaline had stopped drowning it out. Everything hurt. Your hands shook as you looked down…blood.

“Oh, God. Okay,” You whispered hoarsely to yourself. “Okay, just…deal with it.”

Your fingers fumbled with the hem of your shirt before you tore a strip free, wincing at the sound. You worked clumsily, jaw clenched as you pressed fabric against your side and wrapped it around your waist as tightly as shaking hands allowed. You leaned your head back against the wall once it was done, chest rising unevenly.

For the first time since waking in the gardens, you stopped moving which made everything worse because now your thoughts caught up. Your apartment, job and your stupid little life in New York. The plants you always forgot to water or friends expecting texts back. Tomorrow morning that suddenly felt impossibly far away.

A broken laugh slipped out before you could stop it. “This is so unbelievably fucked.” You muttered shakily.

“Well.” A voice drifted lazily down the corridor. “At least you’re still funny under pressure.”

Every muscle in your body locked.

Slow footsteps echoed against the tile, unhurried and certain like he already knew exactly where this ended. Titus stepped around the corner.

Your stomach dropped.

He looked unfairly composed for someone who was actively hunting you. Dark clothes untouched by dirt, broad shoulders crowding the narrow corridor before he had even fully stepped into it. One hand dragged absently against the wall as he walked, calm in a way that immediately made your skin crawl.

“There you are, Bunny.”

The nickname landed like a slap. “Don’t call me that.” You snapped immediately, shoving yourself upright despite the pain tearing through your side.

His mouth twitched faintly. “God, you still hate it?”

“I said don’t fucking call me that.”

Titus stopped a few feet away. Then his gaze dropped, the blood and your ruined shirt and y our shaking hand pressed hard against your side. Something in his expression shifted fast enough to make your stomach twist.

“Ignacio?” He asked, voice quieter now.

You blinked and shook your head slightly. “What?”

“The cut.” His jaw tightened. “Did that fucking prick touch you?”

For a second, you just stared at him, then a sharp, disbelieving laugh escaped your mouth. “Oh, are you serious?” You gestured wildly. “You’re hunting me!”

“You’re alive, aren’t you?”

“You drugged me, kidnapped me, dumped me in a garden to be murdered, and now you’re asking if I’m okay?”

“You’re being dramatic.”

You actually laughed, a horrible, hysterical sound. “Oh my God. You people are genuinely fucking insane.”

His expression softened in a way that immediately made you want to scream. “Bunny– ”

“Stop calling me that!” You grabbed the nearest thing without thinking – a heavy metal flashlight abandoned on the cleaning cart – and launched it. Titus barely turned in time. It slammed into his shoulder with a loud crack.

“Fuck– Jesus Christ.”

You moved instantly, past him. You barely made it two steps as a hand caught the back of your shirt. The world tilted violently as Titus yanked you backward before you could wrench free.

“Absolutely the fuck not.” He snapped.

“Get the hell off me!” You twisted hard, elbow flying blindly. It cracked into his chest. Didn’t do much. Great. You tried again anyway.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Titus barked, grip tightening as you fought him. “Do you have any idea how many people are tearing through these corridors looking for you right now?”

“I don’t care!”

“You should!”

You shoved him hard enough for his back to hit the wall. His hands caught your wrists before you could swing again, pinning them long enough for panic to shoot violently through your chest.

“You disappeared.” He snapped suddenly.

The words caught you off guard. “What?”

“You fucking ran. You vanished for ten goddamn years.”

You stared, actually stared. “I was twenty!” you shouted. “I found out my family was satanic and homicidal!”

“Fair.”

“FAIR?”

“But you still fucking left.”

“You cannot possibly be making this about your feelings right now!”

His jaw flexed hard. “I looked for you.” He said quietly.

Your breath caught. Nope. Absolutely fucking not unpacking that. You slammed your foot down on his.

“Fuck!”

You ripped one hand free and shoved him as hard as you could. “You’re insane!” You ducked under his arm and bolted and made it three steps. Then he caught you again, this time around your waist. You yelped as he physically hauled you back against him.

“Nope.” Titus muttered, breath uneven for the first time. “No, fuck that. Not happening.”

“Let me go!” You kicked backward, missed, tried again. Connected hard with his shin.

“Christ, Bunny – stop fucking fighting me!”

“DON’T CALL ME THAT!”

You grabbed a stack of folded hotel towels balanced on a maintenance cart that was next to you and shoved the entire thing into him. Titus stumbled just enough and you were able to slip free, you chest heaving, blood soaking warm against your side. You backed down the corridor quickly, shaking.

“You said you’d be the one to get me?” You snapped breathlessly.

Titus straightened slowly, something dark flickered across his face, almost thrilled.

Blood rushed loud in your ears. “Then catch me, asshole.” And you ran.