Static

~Focused, I'm focused~

That did it. I turned then, slowly, even though I knew I shouldn't.

His face was too magnetic, too sharp, jaw like a blade, mouth like a dare, cheekbones that could cut glass. His hair curled in places, messy in a way that felt deliberate. Dangerous.

And his accent, Spanish, tilted just enough to make amor sound like it had weight. Like it wasn't just a word. It was... pulling.

"Finney," I said, quiet. "It's Finney Blake."

He nodded once, like he was filing it away. "Finney," he repeated, tasting the shape of it. "Pretty name."

"It's not. It's basic," I snapped, too fast, too reactive.

But he just shrugged, the smirk never leaving. "Suits you."

I didn't know what that meant. I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

The rest of the locker room seemed to fall away for a moment, the noise from the others fading until it was just me and him, in this weird bubble of static and breath. My throat felt tight. My hands ached with this weird, buzzing tension.

I broke the silence first.

"So... you just beat the crap out of people for fun?" I asked, trying to sound casual, but it came out more defensive than I meant. Sharp, like I'd jabbed a stick into a beehive.

His expression didn't change much, but his eyes did. Something in them flickered. Dimmed.

"He called my sister a slur," Robin said, voice quiet. "Thought it was funny. I didn't."

Oh.

I blinked. The answer hit different than I expected.

I thought he'd say something cocky. Something cold. But instead, he gave me that.

And I got it. I got it way too well.

If someone said anything like that about Gwen, I'd probably lose it too.

But before I could respond, Coach's whistle shrieked from the gym like a dying bird.

Robin pushed off the locker, already halfway to the door. "Better hurry up, amor," he said over his shoulder, and his voice, God, his voice had this lilt to it, like a smile dipped in something dangerous. "Don't want to be late. Especially not on your first day."

He didn't wait.

Just left me there, standing in a puddle of my own nerves, heart thudding loud enough to hear in my teeth, the name amor echoing around my skull like a dare, like a warning, like a promise.

I huffed, dragging the standard-issue PE shirt over my head. It was itchy. Ugly. A nauseating shade of blue and black. Emo colours. I wrinkled my nose.

Perfect. Just what I needed to cap off the experience: bad fashion and worse hormones.

I rubbed my eyes and muttered to myself.

Today was going to be hell.

And somehow, right now, I already knew, I wasn't going to survive gym class.

I already hated it.

Coach barked at us like we were about to storm a battlefield. Clipboard in hand, whistle clenched between his teeth, shirt half-untucked like he'd been at war with teenage boys for far too long and barely survived. "Warm-ups first. Pairs. Don't waste my time."

"Finneeeey," Gwen sand before I could even blink, skipping across the court like this was recess instead of sanctioned torture. Her braids bounced with every step, smile wicked, eyes bright. "Guess we're stuck with each other."