Tangled In Red

1- The school gates

The bedroom door didn't just open, it hit the wall with a crack that sounded like a gunshot. Issac bolted upright, his heart hammering against his ribs before his eyes were even open.

"Get up," his father barked, his shadow looming large and jagged against the hallway light. "The kitchen is a wreck. If it isn't spotless before you leave for school, don't bother coming back tonight. Move!"

Issac didn't say a word. He couldn't. He scrambled out of bed, his feet hitting the cold floorboards as he headed for the kitchen. He grabbed a sponge, his hands shaking as he began to scrub at the dried grease on the stove. Every time his father walked past, Issac flinched, pulling his shoulders toward his ears, trying to become small enough to disappear.

"He's not doing it."

Issac froze. Miles was standing in the kitchen archway, his football jersey already on, his jaw set in a hard line. He stepped directly between Issac and their father.

"He's going to be late for the bus," Miles said, his voice low and steady. "I'll do it. I'll scrub the whole place when I get back from practice. Just let him go."

Their father leveled a glare at Miles, the son he actually respected, before grunting and turning away. Miles didn't wait. He grabbed Issac's backpack and shoved it into his hands, ushering him out the front door and down the porch steps before the atmosphere could turn violent again.

The walk to the city bus stop was silent. The January air bit at Issac's face, turning his nose red. Once they were settled in the back of the bus, Miles nudged him. "You okay?"

Issac shrugged, staring out the window at the gray morning. "Fine."

"May is coming, Issac," Miles whispered, glancing at his own wrist where a faint, unattached red thread shimmered in the light. "Once you get your string, things will change. You'll have someone else. A way out."

Issac didn't answer. He just pulled his sleeves down over his bare wrists. To him, the string didn't feel like a promise; it felt like another person he would eventually disappoint.

When they pulled up to the school, Kristy and Max were already waiting by the gate.

"You're late!" Max shouted, waving a frantic hand. "We've been standing here for twenty minutes. Did you get lost in your closet again?"

"Is everything okay at home?" Kristy asked, her eyes searching Issac's face with that look of pity he hated.

Issacdidn't hear them. His focus had drifted past them to the parking lot. A sleek black BMW had just pulled in, and out stepped Cyrus and Knox. Knox was mid-laugh, his head thrown back, the sound carrying across the pavement. He looked so effortless, so bright, that Issac felt a sudden, sharp heat climb up his neck.

He felt himself blush, a deep, traitorous red.

"Oh my god," Max gasped, leaning in. "Why are you turning into a strawberry? Who are you looking at? Is it Knox?"

The "sweet feeling" in Issac's chest immediately curdled into panic. It felt dangerous. He thought of his father's sneer, of his mother's hollow eyes, and his defense mechanisms slammed into place.

"Shut up, Max," Issac snapped, his voice harsh and echoing his father's tone. "We're late for class. Move."

He didn't wait for them. He turned and bolted toward the building, his head down, effectively cutting himself off from his friends.

He didn't see Knox stop walking. He didn't see Knox's eyes follow him with a curious, intense focus. But Miles saw it. Miles stepped into Knox's line of sight, his posture shifting into something aggressive and protective.

"Eyes off, Knox," Miles warned, his voice like cold iron. "He's my brother. He's off-limits. Don't even think about it."

Knox didn't look away from the door where Issac had disappeared. A slow, dangerous smirk spread across his face. "Off-limits? That sounds like a challenge, Miles."

Miles didn't budge. He leaned in closer, his shadow falling over Knox, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I'm serious. He's been through enough. If you mess with his head, or if you're the reason he has a bad day, we aren't just teammates anymore. Be careful, Knox. I'm not playing."

With a final, warning look, Miles turned on his heel and walked toward the gym, his shoulders tense.

Cyrus let out a low whistle, kicking at a loose pebble on the asphalt. "Man, I've never seen Miles look at you like he wanted to snap your neck before. You should probably listen to him. Issac is... well, he's Issac. Just leave it alone."

"Yeah," Knox murmured, though his eyes were still fixed on the heavy school doors. "Sure."

Cyrus laughed, slapping him on the shoulder. "Come on, Romeo. We're gonna be late for history."

Knox scoffed, shoving his hands into his pockets as they started toward the building. He tried to focus on Cyrus's mindless chatter about the upcoming game, but his brain was elsewhere. He kept seeing the way Issac's skin had turned that deep, frantic red—the way he looked like a startled bird ready to take flight. He'd seen Issac around for a year now, always in the background, always a ghost. But today, the ghost had color. And Knox felt a strange, nagging need to know why.

"Knox! Hey, Knox!"

The voice was high-pitched and familiar, making Knox's jaw tighten instantly. Mary was jogging toward them, her backpack bouncing, a hopeful, practiced smile on her face. She'd been trailing him since freshman year, appearing at his locker, his practices, and every party he attended.

"I saw you pull in," she said, reaching them and completely ignoring Cyrus. "I was thinking maybe you could help me with the prep work for—"

"Fuck off, Mary," Knox interrupted, his voice flat and cold. He didn't even slow his pace.

The smile slid off her face like melting wax. "I just wanted to talk—"

"I don't. I don't want to talk to you today, or tomorrow, or ever. Get the hint." He didn't look back to see the look of humiliation crossing her face or the way she stopped dead in the middle of the hallway. He didn't care. He had no interest in her, or the girls like her who liked him for the jersey and the reputation.

He had no interest in anyone. Or at least, he hadn't until ten minutes ago.

As he reached his classroom, he leaned against the door frame for a second, his gaze dropping to his own wrist. The red string was there, a thin, shimmering line of fate that looped around his skin before trailing off into nothingness, still searching for its match. He'd spent a year wondering who was on the other end of it. He'd looked at every girl in his grade, waiting for a spark, a tug, anything.

Nothing.

But then, his mind drifted back to the short, black-headed boy. He thought about Miles's protective fury and the way he'd declared Issac off-limits. Most people would see that as a dead end. Knox saw it as a starting line.

He'd spent his life winning on the field because he knew how to read a defense and find the gap. Issac was the ultimate defense a wall of silence and rage built to keep the world out.

Knox felt a slow, predatory grin tug at the corner of his mouth as he sat down at his desk. Miles wanted him to back off? Fine. That just made the game more interesting. Issac wasn't just a boy in the hallway anymore.

He was the only challenge Knox actually cared about winning.