Static

~Focused, I'm focused~

The gym smelled like rubber soles, old sweat, and something vaguely metallic, like the ghost of blood never fully scrubbed from the mats. It buzzed with the kind of tension only teenage boys could conjure: all bravado and barely-contained hormones, bouncing off the locker-lined walls like static electricity.

I hated it already.

Coach had barked some quick intro, "No phones. No whining. If you pass out, puke to the side", before tossing us into the changing rooms like meat into a grinder. The whole class shuffled in, loud and stinking of Axe, cracking jokes like we'd all known each other for years. I stuck to the edge, hoping to disappear. Just another body in the blur.

No such luck.

The lockers were a maze of rusted metal and peeling stickers, all creaking hinges and slamming doors. I found an empty one near the back, tucked in the corner, dim light flickering overhead like it couldn't quite decide whether to stay on. I turned my back to the noise and started changing as fast as I could. Shirt off. Hoodie stuffed into my bag. Quick. Clean. Invisible.

Until I heard his voice.

Low. Casual. Right behind me.

"Fancy seeing you here."

My heart stuttered, did a weird skip that almost hurt.

I turned slowly, shirt still half-tugged over my head, and there he was.

Robin.

Leaning against the row of lockers like he owned the place, which, knowing him, he probably did. His gym shirt hung loose on his frame, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, revealing knuckles that looked like they'd been kissed by pavement and sharp, defined forearms that were definitely not standard-issue teenage boy.

He had the kind of arms you got from actually lifting, actually punching, actually doing something. Veins, muscles, tan skin with faded scrapes and the kind of ink you weren't supposed to have yet, not unless you were serious. His dark eyes were locked right on me, steady and unreadable, and suddenly I felt more undressed than I actually was.

And he was smirking.

Of course he was smirking.

I yanked my shirt the rest of the way down and turned back toward my locker, pretending like my pulse wasn't slamming against my ribs. Compared to him, I didn't exactly scream "gym rat." I wasn't skinny, but I was soft, slim-waisted, narrow-shouldered. The kind of body that made people assume I ran cross country or... did ballet. Freckles dotted my shoulders. Moles here and there, across my back and ribcage like constellations no one else had ever mapped.

And I could feel his eyes on me. Burning. Tracing.

I hated it. Yet, I loved it.

"Do you always stare at people while they change, or am I just special?" I muttered, trying to sound dry and unimpressed, though I could feel the edge in my voice, the way it cracked around the vowels.

He laughed, a low, amused sound that curled at the edges like smoke.

"Bit of both... you're intriguing. Let's put it that way."

Goddammit.

The heat crawled up my neck, over my ears. I could practically feel my skin betraying me, going warm and red. My body didn't know what to do, stand up straighter? Slouch more? Run away? Melt?

I just started here, and he's already got me turning to jelly. One smirk and I'm a freaking puddle.

"You got a name?" he asked, and I could hear the grin in his voice, even though I wasn't looking at him. "Or should I start calling you amor?"