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The parking lot asphalt still held the day's heat, radiating up through the soles of my boots as I stepped out of my car. I didn't hurry. Never do. The heavy bass from someone's stereo thrummed through the concrete, vibrating up my legs, and I let my hips find the rhythm without thinking about it.

My white tank top was thin. Deliberately thin. The kind of cotton that shows everything underneath, which is nothing but me. No bra. Never. My nipples pressed against the fabric, dark circles visible through the damp heat, and I felt the familiar weight of my breasts swinging free with every step. My jeans sat low on my hips, the black lace of my thong riding high above the waistband, a deliberate flash of color against my tan skin.

I felt eyes on me before I saw him. The weight of a stare that didn't slide off—it landed. Held.

He was straddling a black motorcycle, one boot flat on the ground, the other resting on the peg. Leather jacket, sleeves pushed up past his elbows, and ink climbing both forearms in dark rivers of black and gray. A silver cross caught the late afternoon light at his throat, glinting against the hollow of his collarbone. His hair was slicked back, dark, and his jaw—that jaw could cut glass. He was talking to another guy, but his eyes weren't on him.

They were on me.

I kept walking. Kept my hips rolling the way they do when I know someone's watching. The way they do because I like being watched. My hand found my hip, fingers grazing the bare skin above my jeans, and I tilted my chin up. Let him see the confidence. Let him see I knew exactly what he was doing.

His mouth curved. Slow. A grin that wasn't friendly. It was hungry.

I stopped a few feet from his bike. Close enough to smell the gasoline and leather and something warmer—his skin, his sweat, the faint spice of whatever soap he used. I crossed my arms under my breasts, pushing them up, and let my head tilt to the side.

"You're staring," I said. My voice came out steady. Teasing.

He didn't look away. Didn't even blink. "You're worth staring at."

The words hit me low in the belly. Warm. Spreading.

"I'm Valentina," I said. "Val."

He swung his leg off the bike, slow, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. He was taller than I expected. Broader. The leather jacket stretched across his shoulders, and when he took a step toward me—just one—I caught the edge of more ink creeping up his neck, disappearing under his collar.

He stopped a full arm's length away. Not close. But close enough that I had to tilt my head back to hold his gaze.

"Mateo," he said. His voice was low. A rumble that vibrated somewhere deep in my chest, even though he hadn't touched me. His eyes dropped to my mouth, then lower, tracing the curve of my breasts through the thin cotton, the dark peaks of my nipples visible against the white. He took his time. Let me feel every second of that gaze dragging over my skin. "But you can call me what everyone else does."

"And what's that?"

He grinned again. That slow, dangerous curve of his mouth. "El Lobo."

The Wolf. Of course. I should've rolled my eyes. Should've laughed it off. Instead, I felt my pulse kick harder, felt the heat bloom between my thighs, felt my body answer something I didn't have words for yet.

His eyes flicked to my face. Held. "You're new."

"First day."

"First day and you show up looking like that." He said it like a fact. Like he was noting something inevitable. "You trying to start something, Princesa?"

Princesa. The word rolled off his tongue like honey and smoke. Spanish. Warm. A claim I hadn't given him permission to make.

My breath caught. I couldn't help it. The sound was small, barely audible over the bass still thrumming through the lot, but I saw his eyes narrow. He heard it. He knew.

"Princesa." I repeated the word, testing how it felt in my own mouth. "You don't even know me."

"Don't need to." He took another step—closer, but still not close enough to touch. His head dipped, just slightly, lowering his voice so I had to lean in to catch it. "I know enough."

"Yeah?" I matched his tone. Let my lips curve. "Enlighten me."

His eyes dropped to my chest again. Lingered. Lifted slowly back to my face. "You don't wear a bra because you don't think you need one. You wear your confidence like armor, but it's not armor—it's a dare. You dare every guy who looks at you to try something, because you know you can shut them down before they get close." He paused. His gaze sharpened. "But you're not gonna shut me down, are you, Princesa?"

My mouth went dry. My thighs pressed together, a reflex I couldn't control, and the warmth between them spread, slick and insistent. I felt it soak into my thong. Felt my body betray how much I liked this. Liked him.

"That's a lot of assumptions," I managed.

"Am I wrong?"

I held his stare. Didn't blink. Didn't look away. The silence stretched, charged, electric, and I felt the air between us thicken until it was almost too heavy to breathe.

"No," I said quietly.

His grin softened. Just a flicker. Something real beneath the swagger, there and gone so fast I almost missed it. He straightened, stepping back, and the distance he put between us felt deliberate. Intentional. Like he was drawing a line.

"It's your first day," he said. Voice back to that low rumble. "You know anyone here?"

"Not a single person." I let my hand drop from my hip. Let the tension ease, just slightly. "I was kind of hoping I could find someone to show me around. You know. Be friends."

The word hung in the air. Friends. I saw the flicker in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or disbelief.

"Friends," he repeated. Like he was trying the word on and finding it didn't fit.

"Yeah." I stepped closer. One step. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the faint scar cutting through his left eyebrow. "Is that a problem?"

He watched me. Said nothing. The silence stretched.

And then he shook his head, slow, and that grin came back. "You don't want to be friends with me, Princesa."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not a good guy."

He said it flat. No apology. No drama. Just a fact, dropped between us like a stone.

I should have stepped back. Should have laughed it off, said okay, fair enough, and walked away. That's what a smart girl would have done.

I'm not a smart girl.

I stepped closer. Close enough to smell the leather of his jacket, the faint trace of cigarette smoke clinging to his collar, the warmth of his skin beneath it all. Close enough to see the way his throat moved when he swallowed. I let my voice drop, let the word come out like silk wrapped around a hook.

"Please."

His eyes darkened. Just a shade. Just enough that I caught it, felt it, felt the shift in the air between us. For a second—just a second—I thought he might close the distance. Might reach out. Might touch me.

He didn't.

He held his ground. Kept that arm's length between us like a wall. But his voice dropped too, rough and low, a sound that scraped against something raw inside me.

"You sure, Princesa?"

"I wouldn't have asked if I wasn't."

He stared at me. Long enough that I felt the weight of it in my chest, in my stomach, in the slick heat pressing between my thighs. His jaw tightened once, a muscle flickering beneath the stubble, and then he nodded. Just once.

"Fine." He swung his leg back over the motorcycle, settling into the seat, his hands finding the grips. The engine rumbled to life beneath him, a low, vibrating growl that matched the one in my blood. "We can be friends."

The word friends in his mouth sounded like a joke. Like a promise wearing a mask.

I smiled. Wide. Genuine. "Good."

He didn't smile back. His eyes were fixed on me, dark and unreadable, and when he spoke, his voice was low enough that I had to lean in to hear him over the engine.

"But there's rules."

"Rules?"

"You don't get close to me." He revved the throttle. The bike growled. "I'm not gonna be the reason you get hurt."

And before I could answer, before I could even process the words, he pulled out of the parking spot and was gone. The sound of his engine faded into the bass and the exhaust and the chatter of the parking lot, and I was left standing there, heat pooling between my thighs, my skin tingling where his gaze had touched me.

I pressed my thighs together. Felt the wetness soak deeper into my thong. Felt my heart hammering against my ribs, fast and uneven and alive in a way I hadn't felt in—

Never. I'd never felt this way.

I turned and walked back to my car, my hips swaying with every step, my skin burning with the memory of his voice saying Princesa.

You don't get close to me.

We'll see about that, Lobo.

We'll fucking see.

I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my jeans and pulled my thong up higher, letting the black lace ride up over my hips, a deliberate flash of fabric above my denim. The parking lot was still buzzing with the end-of-day energy, bass thumping from a car three rows over, laughter cutting through the exhaust-thick air. I knew eyes were on me—they always were—but I only cared about one pair.

I bent over. Slow. Letting my tank top ride up just enough to bare the small of my back, the curve of my spine, the lace cutting across my skin. My keys jangled as I found the lock, and I stayed there an extra beat, savoring the stretch in my hamstrings, the weight of my breasts swinging free beneath the thin cotton, the way the humid air pressed against my exposed skin.

When I straightened, I glanced back over my shoulder.

He was still there.

Mateo hadn't moved. His motorcycle was idling at the edge of the lot, one boot planted on the asphalt, both hands gripping the handlebars. He was watching me. Not the way the other guys watched—hungry, obvious, hands already in their pockets. No. He watched like he was memorizing. Like he was cataloging every inch of me for later.

The silver cross at his throat caught the late afternoon light, and I saw his jaw tighten. Just once. A muscle flickering beneath the stubble, betraying something he didn't want me to see.

I smiled. Slow. Let him see it.

He didn't smile back. But he didn't look away either.

I turned fully, letting my hips swing as I walked the last few steps to my car door, one hand trailing along the roof, the other pressing the key fob. The lock popped, and I pulled the door open, the hot interior air rushing out to meet me. I slid into the driver's seat, but I didn't close the door. Not yet.

I sat there, legs still half-out, one hand on the steering wheel, and let my gaze drift back to him.

He was closer now.

Not much—maybe a few feet—but he'd moved his bike forward, rolling it to a stop at the edge of the lane that ran past my row. Close enough that I could see the beads of sweat on his forehead, the way his knuckles were white against the black grips. Close enough that I could hear his engine idling, low and rough, a sound that vibrated somewhere deep in my chest.

"You gonna stare all day, papi?" I called out, the words leaving my mouth before I could stop them.

His lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. "You're the one who bent over like that."

"Maybe I wanted you to look."

"I know."

He said it like it was obvious. Like he'd known it from the second I stepped out of my car, from the second I'd walked across that parking lot with my hips swinging and my chin up. Like he'd known it before I even knew it myself.

And the worst part? He was right.

I bit my lip. Let the silence stretch. Let the heat between us build until it was almost unbearable, until I could feel the air pressing against my skin, thick and electric and alive.

"So," I said, my voice softer now. "Friends?"

He laughed. A low, quiet sound, barely more than a breath. "You don't give up, do you?"

"Not when I want something."

"And you want me."

Not a question. A statement. A fact.

I should have denied it. Should have laughed it off, said something clever, turned the tables the way I always did. That's what I was good at—the game, the banter, the chase. But something about the way he said it, the way his dark eyes held mine, made the words die in my throat.

"Yeah," I said. "I do."

The admission hung between us, raw and bare and terrifying. I'd never said those words to anyone. Not like that. Not with my whole chest, with no walls, no armor, no clever deflection to hide behind.

He went still. The motorcycle rumbled beneath him, but he didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared at me with those dark eyes, and I watched something shift behind them, something I couldn't name.

"You don't know me," he said finally.

"I know enough."

"You know my reputation."

"I know you ride a motorcycle. I know you have tattoos. I know you called me Princesa like you meant it."

His jaw tightened again. The muscle flickered. "That's not enough."

"Then show me more."

The words came out before I could think, before I could filter them through the wall I'd spent years building. They were raw and honest and desperate, and I hated how much I meant them.

He stared at me. Long enough that I felt the weight of it in my chest, in my stomach, in the wet heat pressing between my thighs. Long enough that I thought he might actually do it—might kill the engine, swing off the bike, walk over to me and show me exactly what he meant.

He didn't.

He revved the throttle instead. The engine growled, loud and rough, and he said, "Get in your car, Princesa."

"Mateo—"

"Get in your car." His voice was low. Tight. Like he was holding something back. "Before I change my mind."

I should have pushed. Should have said something sharp, something teasing, something that kept the game going. But the look in his eyes stopped me. Something flickering there, something raw and hungry and barely contained, and I knew—I knew—that if I pushed any harder, he'd break.

And I wasn't sure I was ready for what that looked like.

I pulled my legs into the car. Closed the door. The sound of it clicking shut was loud in the sudden silence, cutting through the bass and the chatter and the heat.

He watched me through the windshield. I watched him back.

And then he pulled his bike around, the engine roaring as he tore out of the parking lot, leaving nothing but a trail of exhaust and the echo of his name on my lips.

I sat there, hands gripping the steering wheel, my heart hammering against my ribs, my thighs pressed together against the ache that had settled deep between them. My thong was soaked. I could feel it, the wet fabric clinging to me, a constant reminder of the way his voice had scraped against my skin, the way his eyes had stripped me bare without ever touching me.

I let my head fall back against the headrest. Closed my eyes. Breathed in the scent of hot leather and stale air and the faint trace of cigarette smoke that had somehow followed me into the car.

"Princesa," I whispered to myself, testing the word on my tongue.

It felt like a brand. Like a claim. Like something I didn't want to give back.

I started the engine, pulled out of the parking lot, and drove home on autopilot, my mind still stuck on the parking lot, on the motorcycle, on the boy with the silver cross and the dark eyes and the voice that made me wet with a single word.

When I got to my apartment, I stood in the shower for twenty minutes, letting the hot water beat against my skin, trying to wash away the feeling of his gaze. But it didn't work. It was still there, burning beneath my skin, a heat I couldn't shake.

I dried off, threw on a pair of loose shorts and an old crop top, and collapsed onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

Princesa. Dont be wearing revealing clothes to tempt me.

I stared at the message. Read it three times. My fingers trembled as I typed back: How'd you get this number?

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

I know people.

I laughed. A real laugh, bright and surprised and alive. I typed: yes papi

The dots again. Then:

Dont

Dont test me, Princesa.

I pressed my thighs together. The ache was back, sharp and insistent, and I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper.

You could have told me this in person, I typed.

I know.

Then why didn't you?

Long pause. Long enough that I thought he wasn't going to answer. Then:

Because if I'd told in person, I wouldn't have stopped with my demands.

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I felt them in my chest, in my stomach, in the slick heat pooling between my thighs. I read them again. And again. And again.

My phone buzzed again. A new message.

Goodnight, Val.

I stared at the screen, my heart pounding, my skin burning, the ache between my thighs almost unbearable. I wanted to type something back. Something clever, something teasing, something that kept the game going.

But I didn't have the words.

Instead, I saved his number under a single name:

Daddy💞.

I set my phone on the nightstand, rolled onto my back, and stared at the ceiling. The room was dark, the only light the faint glow of streetlamps through my blinds. I could still feel him—the weight of his gaze, the roughness of his voice, the way his name had sounded in my head when I typed it.

I pressed my hand between my thighs. Just once. Just to feel the heat, the ache, the wetness that hadn't faded since I'd left the parking lot.

We'll see about that, papi.

We'll fucking see.

I took my time getting dressed the next morning. Not because I was indecisive—I knew exactly what I was doing. The white crop top was practically translucent, thin cotton that left nothing to the imagination. My nipples pebbled against the fabric before I even stepped outside, the morning air hitting them through the flimsy material. No bra. Obviously. The micro skirt was black, barely covering my ass, riding high on my hips. I paired it with a thin gold chain that sat just above my collarbone, catching the light when I moved.

I examined myself in the mirror. Ran my hands down my sides, over my hips, watching the way the fabric hugged every curve. My hair fell loose and wavy past my shoulders, and I'd lined my eyes just enough to make them darker, deeper. My lips were glossed, pink and full.

I looked like a problem.

Good.

I grabbed my keys and headed out, my thighs brushing together as I walked, the thong riding high between my cheeks. I could feel the eyes on me before I even reached the parking lot. A group of guys near the entrance stopped talking. One of them let out a low whistle. I didn't turn around. Didn't slow down. My hips swayed a little more, a little wider, because I knew exactly what I was doing.

But I wasn't looking for them.

I scanned the lot until I found my car. And there, just a few spaces away, straddling his black motorcycle like he owned the ground beneath it, was Mateo.

He saw me before I saw him looking. His head was already turned, his dark eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my stomach flip. His jaw was set, his hand resting on the handlebar, his silver cross catching the morning sun. He didn't smile. He just watched.

I felt my nipples tighten. Felt the familiar warmth bloom between my thighs. I held his gaze as I walked closer, letting him look, letting him take in every inch of what I was wearing—or not wearing.

When I reached my car, I leaned against the driver's side door, crossing my arms beneath my breasts to push them up. "Good morning, papi."

He didn't answer right away. His eyes traveled from my face down to my chest, down to the bare skin of my stomach, down to my thighs. When they came back up, there was a fire in them. A warning.

"Princesa." His voice was low. Rough. "What the fuck are you wearing?"

I tilted my head, feigning innocence. "Clothes."

"That's not clothes." He swung off his bike, the movement fluid and controlled, and walked toward me. The closer he got, the more I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides. "That's a goddamn invitation."

"An invitation for who?" I smiled. "You?"

He stopped a foot away. His eyes dropped to my chest again, and I saw his throat move as he swallowed. "You're testing me."

"Maybe."

"I told you not to wear revealing clothes."

"You said not to tempt you." I let my voice drop, sultry and soft. "I'm not tempting you, Mateo. I'm just dressing how I dress."

His jaw tightened. The muscle in his cheek twitched. He took another step closer, close enough that I could smell him—leather and soap and something warmer underneath. Close enough that I had to tilt my chin up to hold his gaze.

"Princesa." The word was a growl. "You're going to get yourself in trouble."

"Maybe I want trouble."

Something flickered in his eyes. Heat. Want. And then restraint, slamming down like a gate. He stepped back. Ran a hand through his hair. Let out a breath that was almost a laugh.

"Okay," he said. "New rule."

"What rule?"

His eyes met mine. Hard. Serious. "You don't touch me."

I blinked. "What?"

"You heard me." He crossed his arms, and the muscles in his biceps shifted, the tattoos on his forearms catching the light. "You wanna be friends? Fine. We're friends. But you don't touch me."

"Why?" The word came out sharper than I meant. "That's—that's stupid."

"Because if you touch me," he said, his voice dropping low, rough as gravel, "I won't be able to stop. And I'm not gonna be that guy."

The words hit me in the chest. In the stomach. Between my thighs. I felt them everywhere. I pressed my thighs together, the ache sudden and sharp, and I hated that he could see it—the way my breath hitched, the way my lips parted.

"That's not fair," I said.

"Life's not fair, Princesa." He said it softer this time. Almost gentle. "You wanted my attention. You got it. But if we're gonna do this—if we're gonna be friends—you follow my rules."

I stared at him. The sunlight caught the silver cross at his throat, glinting against his skin. His eyes were dark and steady and patient, like he was waiting for me to decide.

I wanted to argue. I wanted to push. I wanted to grab his hand and press it against my chest and say fuck your rules.

But something in his voice—that gentleness under the growl—made me pause.

"Fine," I said. "Friends."

He studied me for a long moment. Then his lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. "Good girl."

My heart stuttered.

"Come on," he said, jerking his head toward the school. "I'll walk you in."

I grabbed my bag and fell into step beside him. The parking lot was filling up, students streaming past us, but I barely noticed them. All I could feel was the heat radiating off his body, the space between us that felt electric, charged. I wanted to close it. Wanted to feel his arm brush mine, his hand find my lower back. But I remembered the rule. Don't touch him.

I kept my hands to myself. Barely.

We walked through the main doors, and heads turned. Gaggles of girls stopped mid-conversation. A group of jocks near the hallway lockers went quiet, their eyes tracking me like I was prey. I felt their gazes slide over my body—my bare shoulders, my exposed stomach, the curve of my ass under the micro skirt.

I ignored them. Kept my eyes forward. Focused on the boy next to me.

Mateo noticed. His head swiveled, and I watched his jaw tighten as he caught one of the jocks staring. He didn't say a word. He just looked at the guy—a long, hard, don't-fucking-try-it look—and the jock looked away first.

A warmth spread through my chest. Not the ache between my thighs this time, but something quieter. Softer.

"My locker's this way," I said, pointing down the hall.

He nodded, falling into step beside me again. We passed a group of girls who giggled as we went by, whispering behind their hands. I heard one say "El Lobo" in a breathy voice. Another said "who's the slut?"

I didn't flinch. I was used to it.

Mateo, though—his hand shot out, not quite touching my arm, but close. "Ignore them."

"I always do."

He looked at me, something shifting in his eyes. Respect, maybe. Or recognition. Like he was seeing something he hadn't expected.

We reached my locker. I twirled the combination, pulled it open, and the silence stretched between us. I could feel him watching me. Could feel the weight of his gaze on my back, on my hips, on the curve of my spine where my crop top rode up.

"So," I said, turning around. "This is me."

"I see that."

"Are you gonna stare at me all day, or are you gonna show me around?"

His lips twitched. "I already am showing you around. You're standing at your locker."

"That's not a tour. That's one spot."

"Fine." He leaned against the locker next to mine, crossing his arms. "What do you wanna see?"

I bit my lip, thinking. "The cafeteria? The library? The spot where all the bad kids smoke behind the gym?"

He laughed. A real laugh, low and rough, and the sound of it went straight through me. "The spot behind the gym? Who told you about that?"

"No one. I figured a school like this has one."

"Smart girl." His eyes lingered on my face. "Yeah, there's a spot. I'll show you later."

"Promise?"

"Princesa." He said it like a vow. "I don't break promises."

The air between us thickened. I felt my pulse pick up, felt the heat creeping up my neck. I wanted to reach out and touch him. Just a hand on his chest. Just a finger tracing the ink on his forearm.

But I remembered the rule.

I didn't.

"So," I said, my voice coming out breathier than I wanted. "You gonna show me around or what?"

He pushed off the locker, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Come on."

We walked through the halls side by side, and I noticed the way people looked at him—with a mix of fear and respect. Guys nodded as we passed. Girls watched with hungry eyes, then narrowed them when they saw me next to him. I felt like a trophy, but not in a bad way. Like I was the one he'd chosen.

He pointed out the main offices, the gym, the art wing. He told me which teachers were easy and which ones would ruin your life. He even showed me the bathroom on the second floor that no one ever used, where he went when he needed to get away from everyone.

"You're giving me all your secrets," I teased.

"Not all of them."

"Yet."

He stopped. Turned to face me. We were in an empty hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, and he was close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. "Princesa," he said, his voice low. "You don't wanna know all my secrets."

"Why not?"

"Because some of 'em aren't pretty."

"I don't need pretty."

Something flickered in his eyes. Vulnerability, maybe. Or warning. "You sure about that?"

I held his gaze. Didn't blink. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

He stared at me for a long moment. The air between us crackled. I could feel the pull, the magnetic force that seemed to draw me toward him every time we were in the same room. My fingers itched to reach out. My lips burned to press against his.

But the rule. The goddamn rule.

He broke the silence first. "You're different."

"Different how?"

"Different from the other girls." He said it simply, like a fact. "They see the tattoos and the bike and the cross, and they think they know what they're getting. They want the bad boy. The danger." His eyes met mine. "You look at me and you see something else."

My heart hammered. "What do I see?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he reached up—slowly, giving me time to pull away—and brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers grazed my skin, featherlight, and I felt the touch everywhere. In my chest. In my stomach. In the wet heat pooling between my thighs.

"I don't know yet," he said. "But I wanna find out."

My breath caught. "You said no touching."

"I did."

"That counts."

He smiled. A slow, dangerous, devastating smile. "I know." He dropped his hand. Stepped back. "Come on. You're gonna be late for first period."

I stood there for a second, trying to catch my breath, trying to remember how to move. My body felt like it was on fire. Every nerve ending was alive and screaming for him.

This boy is going to ruin me.

And the terrifying part?

I wanted him to.

I followed him down the hall, my eyes fixed on the back of his head, on the way his shoulders filled out his leather jacket, on the silver cross that swung with every step. He walked like he owned the world. Like nothing could touch him.

I wanted to be the one who got close enough to try.

We reached my first-period classroom, and he stopped at the door. "You good?"

"Yeah." I was not good. I was a mess. A wet, aching, desperate mess. "I'll see you at lunch?"

"Yeah." He paused. "Val."

My name. Not Princesa. My real name. It sounded different in his mouth. Softer. Like it meant something.

"Yeah?"

"Don't let anyone give you shit today. If they do—"

"I know. You know people."

He smiled. "That's right."

And then he was gone, disappearing down the hall, leaving me standing there with my heart pounding and my thighs pressed together and a smile I couldn't wipe off my face.

I walked into class, found a seat in the back, and stared at the board without seeing it. All I could think about was him. The way he'd touched my hair. The way he'd said my name. The way he'd looked at me like I was something precious.

I pulled out my phone. Opened his contact. Daddy💞.

I typed: You're gonna be late to class too

The dots appeared immediately.

I have first period free.

Lucky you.

Mm. Thinking about you.

I bit my lip. Pressed my thighs together under the desk.

What about me?

Long pause. Then:

That skirt.

What about it?

How easy it would be to lift it.

The heat exploded through me. I squeezed my thighs together so hard it almost hurt, my breath coming shallow. The teacher was droning on about syllabus rules, and I was sitting there with my phone in my lap, reading the words over and over, my cunt throbbing.

You said no touching, I typed.

I didn't say no thinking about it.

I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.

Princesa, he typed. You better behave today. Or I'll have to remind you why you agreed to my rules.

My fingers trembled as I typed back: And what if I don't want to behave?

Three dots. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then:

Then you'll learn exactly what happens to girls who test me.

I set my phone face-down on the desk. Stared at the ceiling. Took a long, slow breath.

Fuck.

I was in so much trouble.

The bell rang and I shoved my phone into my back pocket, the ghost of his words still burning through my skin. I gathered my things slowly, letting the other students push past me, waiting for my thighs to stop pressing together so desperately. It didn't work. Every step I took toward the hallway, I felt the ache between my legs, the wetness that hadn't dried, the memory of his voice saying how easy it would be to lift it.

I walked down the crowded hallway, letting my hips do what they do, feeling the weight of eyes on me. Boys stared. Girls glared. I didn't care. I was looking for him. My locker was in the east wing, and I told myself I wasn't hoping to see him there. I was just going to my locker. That's all.

And then I did.

He was at his locker, two rows down from mine, leaning against the metal with that lazy confidence that made my knees weak. His leather jacket was unzipped, his white T-shirt tight against his chest, the silver cross catching the fluorescent light. And he was talking to a girl.

A girl with long blonde hair and a skirt even shorter than mine. She was laughing at something he said, touching his arm, leaning in close. Too close. He wasn't pulling away. He was smiling at her. That slow, dangerous smile that he'd given me.

I felt something hot and sharp twist in my chest. Jealousy. Ugly and green and irrational. I didn't even know her name. I didn't know if she meant anything to him. But seeing her hand on his arm, seeing her laugh at his words, seeing him give her that smile—it made me want to walk over there and shove her away from him.

Instead, I slammed my locker shut. The sound echoed down the hall, loud enough that a few heads turned. His head turned. Those dark eyes found me immediately. His smile didn't waver, but something in his gaze shifted. He knew I'd seen. He knew exactly what I was feeling.

I turned on my heel and walked toward my next class, my jaw tight, my heart pounding. I didn't look back. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

The classroom was half-empty when I got there. English. My last class of the day. I scanned the room, picked a desk near the middle, and dropped my bag onto the floor. I didn't know he had this class. I didn't know anything. I was still fuming, still imagining what I'd say to him if I had the guts—who was that bitch, Mateo?—when the first guy approached.

"Hey." Dark hair, friendly smile, varsity jacket. "You're new, right? I'm Jake."

I forced a smile. "Val."

"Val." He leaned against the desk next to mine. "Short for something?"

"Valentina."

"That's pretty."

I nodded, glancing at the door. No sign of him yet.

Another guy appeared. "You're in my third period, right? Biology?"

"Yeah."

"I'm Marcus. You need a lab partner, I'm your guy."

I laughed lightly. "I'll keep that in mind."

Within two minutes, there were four of them gathered around my desk, all smiles and easy conversation, asking where I was from, what I thought of the school, if I had a boyfriend. I answered them all, kept my tone friendly, kept my eyes drifting to the door. They were nice. They were cute. They were not him.

The door opened.

Mateo walked in. Leather jacket. Dark hair. That jaw. The cross at his throat caught the light as he moved, and every conversation in the room seemed to dip for half a second. His eyes swept the room, found me surrounded by boys, and something flickered in them. Dark. Dangerous.

He didn't say anything. He didn't have to.

Jake straightened. Marcus took a step back. The other two guys suddenly remembered they had seats on the other side of the room. They scattered like roaches under a bright light, leaving me alone at my desk, a clear circle of empty space around me.

Mateo walked to the far side of the room, dropped into a seat by the window, and pulled out his phone. Didn't look at me. Didn't acknowledge me. Like I was invisible.

The teacher started talking. Attendance. Syllabus. I didn't hear a word. I could only feel the distance between us, the cold space he'd put there, the way he'd dismissed me after texting me those filthy words just an hour ago. After calling me Princesa. After making me feel like I was the only girl in the world.

And now he was sitting across the room like a stranger.

I couldn't stand it.

The teacher turned to write something on the board. I grabbed my bag, stood up, and walked across the room. I felt eyes on me—the guys I'd been talking to, the girls who'd been watching, everyone—but I didn't care. I reached the desk next to his, pulled out the chair, and sat down.

He looked up from his phone. His eyes met mine, and I saw it—the warning. The heat. The same look he'd given me in the hallway that first day.

"Princesa." His voice was low, barely a whisper, but it cut through the classroom noise like a blade. "What are you doing?"

"Sitting next to you." I set my bag down. "I thought that was obvious."

His jaw tightened. He leaned closer, close enough that I could smell him—leather and tobacco and something clean underneath. "You know the rule."

"I know." I met his stare. Held it. "I don't care."

"You should."

"Why?" My voice came out smaller than I wanted. "So you can talk to other girls but you can't sit next to me?"

Something softened in his eyes. Just for a second. "That wasn't—" He stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. "She's just a friend, Valentina."

"She was touching you."

"She's a touchy person."

"I don't like it."

He stared at me for a long moment. The teacher's voice droned on, a distant buzz. I could feel the heat coming off his body, the tension in his shoulders. He wanted to reach out. I could see it in the way his fingers curled against the desk. But he didn't.

"You need to move," he said. Quiet. Final.

"No."

"Valentina." My name. Not Princesa. That's how I knew he was serious. "Move."

I felt something crack in my chest. A small, sharp splinter. He was choosing the rule. He was choosing distance. He was choosing to push me away.

I picked up my bag. Stood. Walked back to my original seat and sat down.

I didn't look at him. I couldn't. If I looked at him, I'd cry, and I refused to give him that. I stared at the board, at the notes I wasn't taking, at the blur of words I wasn't reading. My heart was hammering. My throat was tight.

I obeyed. I always obey.

Even if it means my heart shatters.

The bell couldn't come fast enough. I gathered my things with mechanical precision, refusing to let my eyes drift to the window where he sat. The classroom emptied around me in a rush of laughter and slammed books, and I stayed rooted to my seat until the last body had filed out. Only then did I let myself breathe.

I found her at his locker. The same girl from before. She was leaning against the metal, her hand on his chest, laughing at something he'd said. And he was smiling at her. Not the dangerous half-grin he gave me. A real smile. Soft. Open. The kind of smile that said she mattered.

Something in my chest caved in.

I stood at the end of the hallway, frozen, my bag heavy on my shoulder, my heart a dead weight. She touched his arm. He didn't pull away. She leaned closer. He let her. The girl who could touch him freely, openly, without rules or distance or punishment.

I turned and walked the other way.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of faces and voices I didn't register. I ate lunch alone at a table in the corner, picking at a sandwich I wasn't hungry for, watching the cafeteria crowd ebb and flow around me. I saw him once, across the room, surrounded by his friends. He didn't look at me. Not once.

By the time the final bell rang, I had made a decision.

I found him at his motorcycle, one leg swung over the seat, his helmet dangling from his fingers. The parking lot was thinning out, cars pulling away, the evening light long and golden across the asphalt. He looked up when he saw me, and something in his eyes flickered—surprise, wariness, that familiar heat he couldn't quite hide.

"Princesa." His voice was low. Careful. "You followed me."

"I want to talk." I stopped a few feet away, close enough to smell the leather of his jacket, the faint trace of tobacco. "As friends."

He went still. "What?"

"Friends." I said the word like I was testing it, tasting something bitter. "That's what you want, right? Distance. Rules. So let's be friends."

His jaw worked. He set the helmet down on the seat, slowly, like he was buying time. "Valentina—"

"No, listen." I stepped closer. My voice came out steadier than I felt. "I'm new here. I don't know anyone. You said you were a bad guy, and I believed you. But you're also the only person who's made me feel anything since I walked into this school." I swallowed. "So if friendship is all you're offering, then I'll take it. I'll take whatever you'll give me."

The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. His eyes searched mine, dark and unreadable, and I felt myself cracking open under that gaze, every wall I'd built crumbling to dust.

"You don't mean that," he said finally.

"I do."

"You don't know what you're asking."

"Then tell me." I heard the plea in my own voice, raw and desperate. "Tell me why you keep pushing me away. Tell me why you can look at me like you want to devour me and then act like I'm a stranger five minutes later."

He looked away. His hands gripped the handlebars, knuckles white. "It's complicated."

"Uncomplicate it."

He let out a breath, long and slow. When he looked back at me, there was something raw in his eyes, something he'd been holding back since the moment we met. "I like you, Valentina. More than I should. More than is good for either of us."

My heart stopped. "Then why—"

"Because I'm not good for you." His voice cracked on the last word. "I'm not a good guy. I've done things, been places, that would make you run. And I can't—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I can't be the reason you get hurt."

"You won't hurt me."

"I already am."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I felt them settle into my bones, heavy and cold. He was right. He was hurting me. Every time he pushed me away, every time he chose distance over closeness, every time I watched him smile at another girl—it was a wound that kept reopening.

But I couldn't walk away.

"I don't care," I said. My voice was barely a whisper. "I don't care if you're bad for me. I don't care if you've done terrible things. I don't care about any of it. I just want you."

He stared at me. The air between us felt electric, charged with everything unsaid. I saw the war happening behind his eyes, the battle between what he wanted and what he thought he deserved.

"Friends," he said finally. The word came out rough, like it hurt him to say it.

"Friends." I nodded, even though the word felt like a knife. "I can do friends."

He held my gaze for a long moment. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out his phone. His thumbs moved across the screen, and a moment later, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

"My number," he said. "In case you need anything."

I pulled out my phone and looked at the screen. A single contact: Daddy💞. I saved it without looking up, afraid that if I met his eyes, I'd shatter.

"Thank you," I said quietly.

"Don't thank me yet." He picked up his helmet, fitted it over his head. The visor hid his eyes, but I could feel them on me. "Being my friend isn't safe, Princesa. And I'm not sure I know how to be anyone's friend."

The engine roared to life. He revved it once, twice, the sound echoing off the empty buildings. And then he was gone, taillight disappearing around the corner, leaving me alone in the parking lot with a phone number and a broken heart I was trying very hard to pretend wasn't broken.

I stood there for a long time. The evening air cooled my skin, but the heat of his presence lingered, a phantom warmth I couldn't shake. I looked down at my phone. His name glowed on the screen, a lifeline I wasn't sure I should hold onto.

But I would. I would hold onto anything he gave me, even if it was just the edge of his world. Even if it meant watching him give someone else the softness he wouldn't give me.

Because I was his Princesa.

And princesses didn't give up.

The morning light cut through my blinds like an accusation. I sat up in bed, the sheets pooling around my waist, and stared at my closet like it held all the answers I didn't have.

Yesterday I'd worn no shirt at all. Just a bra. Correction: just pasties. I'd walked into that school knowing every eye would be on me, and they were. His were. And for one electric moment, I'd thought—

I shook my head. Didn't matter what I'd thought. He'd given me his number. Called me Princesa. And then told me we could only be friends.

So today I'd be his friend. The kind of friend who didn't make him uncomfortable. The kind of friend who didn't make him pull away.

I pulled on the tightest pair of jeans I owned—the black ones that hugged every curve like a second skin—and a white T-shirt so thin you could see everything through it. No bra. Some things weren't negotiable. The thong rose above my waistband, a strip of black lace that I adjusted deliberately before I left my room.

Modest. This was modest for me. I almost laughed.

The hallways were already crowded when I got to school. I kept my head up, my hips swinging, my eyes scanning for a flash of leather jacket and dark ink. I found him at his locker, three rows down from mine, his back to me as he pulled out a textbook.

My heart stuttered.

I leaned against my own locker, slow and casual, and watched him. He hadn't seen me yet. His shoulders were broad under that leather jacket, his hair slicked back, the silver cross catching the fluorescent light every time he moved. He was talking to someone—a girl.

The air left my lungs.

She was pretty. Petite. Dark hair pulled into a neat ponytail, a soft smile playing on her lips as she laughed at something he said. She touched his arm, and he didn't pull away.

I felt something crack inside my chest.

"That's Sofia," a voice said beside me. I turned to find a girl with pink streaks in her hair and a knowing smile. "Mateo's... thing. They've been dancing around each other for months."

"I don't care," I said, my voice flat. "I'm just looking for my Bio textbook."

The girl—I didn't catch her name—raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She walked away, and I was left alone with the image of his hand brushing against Sofia's, the easy way he leaned into her space, the way he laughed at something she said.

He'd never laughed like that with me.

I turned back to my locker, fingers fumbling with the combination. I told myself it didn't matter. We were friends. Friends didn't get jealous. Friends didn't feel like someone was carving out their chest with a dull blade.

But I was his Princesa.

The bell rang. I grabbed my books and headed to first period, forcing myself not to look back. But I felt his gaze on me the whole way, a weight I couldn't shake, and I didn't know if I wanted to run toward it or away.

The morning crawled. I sat through English, History, and Math without registering a single word. My notes were a scrawl of half-formed sentences and doodles I didn't remember drawing—a motorcycle, a cross, a pair of dark eyes I couldn't escape.

By the time lunch came, I was a live wire.

The cafeteria was a sea of noise and movement. I spotted him immediately—he was at a table near the windows, surrounded by a cluster of guys in leather jackets and girls who laughed too loud. Sofia was at his side, her hand on his arm, her head leaned in close to say something I couldn't hear.

He smiled at her. Soft. Tender. The way I wanted him to smile at me.

I grabbed a tray and found a table in the corner. Alone. I told myself I was fine. I was here to observe. To study her. To figure out what she had that I didn't, so I could bridge the gap without pushing him away.

She was everything I wasn't. Reserved where I was loud. Modest where I was bold. She didn't wear her body like a weapon—she wore it like a secret, something to be discovered slowly.

Maybe that was what he wanted. Something slow. Something careful. Not a girl who walked into a room and dared the world to look at her.

I stabbed my salad with my fork and forced myself to eat, even though every bite felt like ash.

Then his eyes found mine.

Across the cafeteria, through the crowd of bodies and noise, his gaze locked onto me like a magnet. He was still talking to Sofia, his lips moving, but his attention was on me. I felt it like a physical touch—a hand tracing down my spine, a whisper against my ear.

I held his stare. Let him see me watching. Let him see the hunger I couldn't hide.

He looked away first.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. My hands were shaking. Between my thighs, I felt a familiar heat pooling, warm and insistent, and I hated myself for it. I hated that he could do this to me with a single glance. I hated that I wanted more.

Lunch ended. I packed my tray and headed for the doors, needing air, needing space, needing to be anywhere but in a room where I could watch him give someone else the softness I craved.

"Valentina."

His voice stopped me cold. I turned, and there he was, leaning against the wall outside the cafeteria, hands in his pockets, that slow smile playing on his lips.

"Mateo." My voice came out steadier than I felt.

"You've been avoiding me."

"I've been in class."

"You've been watching me."

I felt heat rise to my cheeks. I couldn't deny it. "Maybe I was looking for you."

"Maybe you found me."

We stood there, the air between us thick with everything unsaid. I wanted to close the distance. I wanted to press him against the wall and feel his lips on mine, to taste the smoke and the danger and the promise he kept dangling in front of me.

But I didn't.

"I saw you with Sofia," I said instead. "She's pretty."

His smile flickered. "She's a friend."

"I'm a friend too." The word tasted bitter on my tongue. "You seem to have a lot of those."

"Sofia and I—" He stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. "It's not what you think."

"I don't think anything." I shrugged, the motion deliberately casual. "I'm just saying. If you're not available, tell me now. I can redirect my attention."

Something dark flickered in his eyes. "You do that, Princesa, and I'll find you."

My breath caught. "That's not fair."

"I never said I was fair."

He pushed off the wall and walked toward me, slow and deliberate, each step eating the distance between us until he was close enough that I could smell him—leather and smoke and something warm underneath. His breath ghosted across my cheek.

"You want to be my friend," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Be my friend. But don't pretend you don't feel this. I see it in your eyes every time you look at me."

I swallowed. "Maybe I do feel it. Maybe I feel it so much it scares me. But you made your choice. You said friends. So I'm being friends."

His jaw tightened. "You're killing me."

"Good."

I turned and walked away before I could see the look on his face. Before I could change my mind. Before I could beg him to take it all back and pull me into his arms and tell me he wanted more.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. I went to my classes, took notes I'd never read, smiled at people whose names I'd forget. But all I could think about was him. The way his eyes had darkened. The way his voice had dropped. The way he'd said my name like it meant something.

When the final bell rang, I was exhausted.

I walked to the parking lot, my feet heavy, my heart heavier. His motorcycle was there, black and gleaming in the afternoon sun. He was straddling it, helmet in his lap, talking to a group of guys.

I didn't stop. I kept walking, past him, past them, toward the bus stop at the edge of the lot.

I unlocked my car and slipped inside, the door clicking shut like a seal on the day. The engine turned over with a low growl, and I pulled out of the lot without looking back. If I looked back, I'd see him. If I saw him, I'd break.

The drive home was a blur of stoplights and street signs I didn't register. Our apartment came into view too fast, and I parked, killed the engine, and sat there in the sudden silence. My hands were still shaking on the wheel.

I let myself in. The apartment was empty—Mom wouldn't be home until late. I kicked off my shoes by the door, tossed my bag on the couch, and stood in the middle of the living room, not sure what to do with myself.

My phone buzzed.

I pulled it out. Mateo's name lit up the screen.

What are you doing?

My heart lurched. I stared at the three words, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. This was the game. He'd texted. He was thinking about me. But it didn't change anything. He'd said friends. He'd let me walk.

I typed back: Just got home. About to shower.

Three dots appeared immediately. Need company?

I laughed despite myself. You wish.

Every day, Princesa.

The word hit me in the chest. I sat down on the arm of the couch, my fingers moving before I could stop them. You have a funny way of showing it.

What's that supposed to mean?

You know exactly what it means.

Three dots. Then nothing. Then three dots again. Then: I told you I'm not good for you.

I decide who's good for me.

Valentina.

My name. Not Princesa. Not a tease. Just my name, and something in the way he typed it made my throat tight.

What?

Long pause. Then: I'm trying to do the right thing.

Who decided what the right thing is?

I did.

I set the phone down. Stared at the ceiling. Counted to ten. Picked it back up.

I saw you with Sofia today. You talked to her for twenty minutes. You laughed with her. You touched her arm.

She's a friend.

I'm a friend too. Seems like the bar for being your friend is pretty low.

That's not fair.

You keep saying that. You keep doing things that aren't fair.

The dots appeared and disappeared three times. When his response finally came, it was just: You're right.

I waited. Nothing else.

That's it? You're just going to agree with me?

What do you want me to say, Valentina? That I think about you constantly? That I almost came looking for you after lunch? That I had to physically stop myself from following you to your car?

I read it twice. Three times. My pulse was loud in my ears.

Then why didn't you?

Because I'm trying to be a good man. For once.

I don't need a good man, Mateo.

I hit send before I could second-guess myself. Then I dropped the phone on the cushion beside me like it had burned me.

The minutes stretched. Five. Ten. The screen stayed dark.

I picked it up again. No new messages. No dots. Nothing.

The tears came before I could stop them. Hot and silent, sliding down my cheeks as I sat there in the empty living room, my phone clutched in my hand, waiting for a reply that wasn't coming.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand. Stood up. Walked to my bedroom.

The closet was a disaster—clothes spilling off hangers, shoes kicked into corners, piles of fabric I'd deemed unwearable and discarded. I stared at it. At the crop tops and the low-cut tanks and the jeans that left nothing to the imagination.

This was my armor. My power. The way I walked into a room and made everyone look.

And it hadn't worked on him. Not the way I wanted.

I reached for a sundress, pastel and soft, and held it up. I'd bought it on a whim and never worn it. Too innocent. Too sweet. Not me.

But maybe the me I'd been wasn't working.

I yanked open a drawer and started pulling things out. Thongs in every color. Lace. Satin. The filthiest scraps of fabric I owned. I piled them on the bed, then went back for the tops. The ones that showed too much. The ones that begged for attention.

I wasn't getting rid of them. I was making space.

I'd wear the sundress. The high-waisted jeans that covered my ass. T-shirts that didn't cling to every curve. I'd still be me—no bra, thong hidden beneath denim—but I'd be softer. More modest. The kind of girl a man like Mateo might decide to risk.

It was pathetic. I knew it was pathetic. I was rearranging my wardrobe for a boy who'd told me he wasn't good enough.

But I'd never felt anything like the way his eyes made me feel. And I'd burn every crop top I owned if it meant feeling that again.

I dropped the sundress on the bed and reached for my phone. Muscle memory. The screen lit up and my thumb found Instagram before I could tell myself not to look.

His story was right there. First one in the queue. Like the universe wanted me to see it.

Mateo's arm draped over someone's shoulders. Sofia's shoulders. The same girl from the parking lot, the one with the soft smile and the easy laugh and the jeans that actually fit her properly. She was wearing a plain white blouse. Loose. Buttoned to the collar. A cross pendant resting on fabric that didn't strain or gap or beg for attention.

I zoomed in. Stupid. Masochistic. I did it anyway.

She wasn't even looking at the camera. She was looking up at him, mid-laugh, one hand resting on his chest like she had the right to touch him. Like she'd touched him before. Like she knew what his skin felt like under her palm.

The caption was just a skull emoji and a wolf. No words. He didn't need them.

I threw the phone onto the bed. It bounced once and landed face-up, her frozen smile still staring at me.

My chest felt hollow. Not the dramatic ache of a broken heart—just empty. Scooped out. Like someone had reached through my ribs and taken something I didn't know I'd already given away.

I picked up the phone again. Scrolled to her profile. Public. Of course it was public.

Her feed was a graveyard of everything I wasn't. Sunsets. Coffee cups. A photo of her reading in a park, legs tucked under her, no makeup, hair in a messy bun. A candid shot of her laughing at something off-camera, her smile genuine and uncalculated.

The comments on her photos were full of hearts and fire emojis. From him. Mateo. "Preciosa." "Esa sonrisa." "Mía."

Mía. Mine.

I closed the app. Opened it again. Closed it. My hands were shaking.

I looked down at what I was wearing. The low-cut tank top that showed the curve of my breasts, the thong visible above my jeans, the belt I'd cinched tight to emphasize my waist. I'd put it on this morning with purpose. I'd walked through those hallways knowing every pair of eyes was on me, and I'd loved it.

He'd looked. I knew he'd looked. But looking wasn't the same as wanting.

Not wanting enough.

I stood in front of the mirror and saw myself the way he must see me. A body in tight clothes. A challenge. A dare. Something to look at and walk away from because looking was enough—why would a man like him reach for something that was already offering itself?

I hated the thought the second it formed. Not because it was cruel—because it felt true.

The sundress was still on the bed. Pastel. Soft. Innocent. The kind of thing Sofia would wear.

I picked it up again and held it against my body. The fabric was light. Airy. It would brush against my thighs when I walked. It would move when I moved, instead of clinging.

I could be that. I could learn to be that.

But even as I thought it, my fingers found the hem of my tank top and pulled it over my head. I stood there in just my jeans and my thong, my breasts bare, my reflection staring back at me with dark eyes and a bruised expression.

The sundress went back on its hanger. I shoved it to the back of the closet.

I reached for a cropped hoodie instead. Zipped it up halfway. The fabric gaped open over my chest, showing the curves I couldn't hide even if I wanted to. I wasn't hiding. I was never hiding.

I was recalibrating.

I grabbed my keys and my wallet and headed for the door. The night air hit me as I stepped outside, thick with humidity and the distant hum of highway traffic. My car was parked at the curb, a beat-up Honda I'd saved for two summers to afford.

I drove without a destination. Through the neighborhoods where the streetlights flickered, past the strip malls with their flickering neon signs, past the park where the kids had all gone home and the swings creaked in the wind.

I ended up at a 24-hour diner on the edge of town. Fluorescent lights. Sticky floors. The kind of place where nobody asked questions.

I ordered coffee and sat in a booth by the window, watching the occasional car drift past. My phone buzzed in my pocket and I pulled it out like a reflex.

Not him. My mom. Asking if I was okay.

I typed back: Fine. Out with friends. Don't wait up.

The lie tasted bitter, but it was easier than the truth. The truth was I was sitting alone in a diner at eleven o'clock on a Tuesday because a boy with tattoos and a silver cross had made me feel ordinary for the first time in my life, and I didn't know how to exist in a world where I wasn't the most interesting thing in the room.

The coffee was bitter. I drank it anyway.

I thought about Sofia's white blouse. Her cross pendant. The way she'd looked at him like he was just a boy, not a conquest.

Maybe that was the difference. Maybe she saw him as a person, and I saw him as a prize.

Maybe I'd been the one doing this wrong the whole time.

I pulled up his contact again. The message thread from earlier was still there, his last words burned into the screen: Because I'm trying to be a good man. For once.

And my reply: I don't need a good man, Mateo.

I stared at those words. The arrogance of them. The way I'd practically thrown myself at him and called it confidence.

My thumbs hovered over the keyboard. I typed. Deleted. Typed again.

I'm sorry.

I hit send before I could stop myself. Then I typed again.

I don't know what I'm doing. I've never done this before.

The dots appeared immediately. My heart stopped.

Done what?

I bit my lip. The coffee had gone cold. I didn't care.

Wanted someone to actually see me.

The dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. I watched them like my life depended on it.

I see you, Princesa.

The tears came before I could stop them. Hot and silent, spilling down my cheeks as I sat there in the fluorescent glow of a 24-hour diner, my phone clutched in my hand, a boy's words cutting through every wall I'd ever built.

Then why her? I typed. Why Sofia?

The dots took a long time this time. When his reply came, it was just three words.

Come find out.

The address popped up a second later. A garage on the south side of town.

I was sliding out of the booth before I'd made the conscious decision to move.

The address led me to a row of old garages on the south side, the kind with rusted roll-up doors and oil stains bleeding into concrete. A single fluorescent light buzzed above one of them, casting a sickly yellow glow across the figure straddling a black motorcycle.

Mateo.

His back was to me, leather jacket stretched tight over his shoulders, head tilted toward someone I couldn't see from this angle. The silver cross at his throat caught the light as he moved, and I felt my chest tighten the way it always did when I saw him.

I parked down the block, killed the engine, and stepped out before I could think better of it. My sneakers made no sound on the asphalt. I walked toward him like a moth drawn to flame, ignoring every voice in my head that told me to turn around.

He was talking to someone. A girl. I could see her now—dark hair, white blouse, the glint of a cross pendant similar to his. Sofia.

My steps faltered. But I kept moving.

She saw me first. Her eyes lifted over his shoulder, found mine, and a slow smile spread across her lips. The kind of smile that knew something I didn't. The kind that said watch this.

She leaned in and kissed him.

Not a peck. Not a friendly brush. Her hand came up to cup his jaw, her body pressing into his, and she kissed him like she owned him. Like I wasn't even there.

Time stopped. The world narrowed to that single image—her mouth on his, his hands rising to her waist, the way he didn't pull away.

Something cracked inside me. A sound I felt more than heard, like a bone breaking in slow motion.

I turned and ran.

My feet pounded the asphalt, my vision blurring as tears spilled hot and fast down my cheeks. I fumbled for my car door, wrenched it open, and threw myself inside. The engine roared to life, and I slammed the gas before I'd even strapped in, the tires squealing as I tore away from that garage, from that image, from him.

I didn't know where I was going. I just drove. Streets blurred past—strip malls, streetlights, the same neighborhoods I'd wandered earlier. None of it registered. All I saw was her mouth on his. All I felt was the jagged shard where my heart used to be.

Why would he do this? Why would he send me that address, those words—come find out—only to let me see that?

Unless he wanted me to see it. Unless this was his way of telling me without telling me.

I pulled over on a side street, my hands shaking on the steering wheel. The tears wouldn't stop. They poured down my face, soaking my collar, leaving salt tracks on my lips. I pressed my forehead against the wheel and sobbed until my chest ached.

And then, slowly, the crying stopped. Something else filled the space—something colder. Harder.

I lifted my head and looked at my reflection in the rearview mirror. Red-rimmed eyes. Smudged mascara. A girl who'd been stupid enough to think she could have him.

I wouldn't be that girl anymore.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand and took a breath that shuddered through my whole body. Then I made a promise. To myself. The kind you make in the dark when no one's watching.

I would never tell him how I felt. I would never reach for him, never touch him, never let him see the want in my eyes. I would be his friend—whatever piece of himself he was willing to give me, I would take it and call it enough. Because he loved her. And I loved him.

And he would never love me back.

The lie tasted like copper. But I swallowed it anyway.

I started the car and drove home. No more detours. No more diners. No more hoping.

When I got to my apartment, I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the wall until the sun came up.

My phone buzzed once. I didn't look at it.

Some promises, you keep by not giving yourself a chance to break them.

The first thing I register is the weight in my chest. A stone where my heart used to be, heavy and cold and wrong. My eyes feel like someone poured sand into them overnight, and when I roll over to check my phone, the screen blares 9:47 AM at me. Saturday. No school. No reason to move.

But I can't stay in this bed. Can't keep staring at the ceiling, replaying that image over and over—her mouth on his, his hands on her waist, the way he didn't even see me standing there. I press the heels of my palms into my eyes until I see stars, then force myself upright.

My reflection in the mirror across the room is a disaster. Mascara raccooned beneath my eyes. Hair a tangled mess. The white tank top I'd worn is wrinkled, and I can still smell the faint trace of cigarette smoke and asphalt clinging to it. I strip it off without looking and step into the shower.

The hot water scalds my shoulders, and I let it. I stand there until the steam fills the bathroom, until I can't breathe without inhaling water, until the tears that want to come get drowned before they can fall. I wash my hair twice. I scrub my skin until it's pink and raw. I tell myself this is a new day.

I don't believe it.

But I get out anyway. I wrap a towel around myself and pad to the kitchen, where I pour a glass of water I don't drink. My phone sits face-up on the counter. One notification. A text from Mateo from last night that I never opened.

I don't open it now. I swipe it away and put the phone in my purse.

Saturday. To-do list. Shopping.

The word feels like a lifeline, and I grab it.

I pull on a pair of high-waisted jeans and a black crop top that shows my midriff. No bra—never a bra. The thong rides high on my hips, visible above the waistband, and I catch myself in the mirror and almost laugh. This is me. This is who I am. The girl who walks into rooms like she owns them, who loves the way eyes trail after her, who never shrank from her own body.

But last night, I shrank. Last night, I ran.

I grab my keys and my wallet and I leave before the thought can settle any deeper.

The mall is busy for a Saturday. Families with screaming kids. Couples holding hands. Groups of girls my age clutching shopping bags and laughing, and I feel a twist of envy so sharp I have to look away. I don't have friends here. Not yet. Maybe not ever, if I keep holing up in my apartment crying over a boy who belongs to someone else.

I head for the department store. The one with the escalators and the wide aisles and the racks upon racks of clothes that could be anyone's. My feet know the way, even if my head doesn't.

I don't head for my usual section. The tight dresses, the cropped tops, the jeans cut low enough to show off every curve. Instead, I find myself in front of a rack of sweaters. Loose-fitting. Soft fabrics. Colors that blend in rather than scream for attention. I run my fingers over the sleeve of a cream-colored one and feel the strangest sensation—like I'm betraying someone. Myself, maybe.

But I pull it off the rack anyway. I drape it over my arm and keep walking.

I grab three more. A navy one with ribbed cuffs. A gray one that looks impossibly soft. A black turtleneck that covers everything from collarbone to wrist. I add a few pairs of jeans that aren't painted on, some loose-fitting blouses, a cardigan that could wrap around me twice. The pile grows. Each piece feels like I'm building armor, layer by layer, against a version of myself I don't want to be anymore.

The girl in the tight white tank top who showed up at a garage like an idiot, hoping for something that was never hers.

I pay with cash and leave before the cashier can make small talk.

At home, I lay everything out on my bed. The new clothes look foreign against my sheets, soft and muted and safe. I strip off my crop top and jeans and pull on the gray sweater. It hangs loose on my shoulders, draping past my hips, hiding every curve I usually put on display. I turn to the mirror and barely recognize myself.

My breasts are still there—they don't disappear just because I cover them—but they don't announce themselves the same way. My waist is still narrow, my hips still wide, but the fabric blurs the lines. I look softer. Quieter. Like someone who wouldn't walk into a room and demand attention.

Like someone he wouldn't look at twice.

The thought lands like a punch to the gut, but I don't let myself linger on it.

I rearrange my closet. The new clothes go on the left, within easy reach. The old clothes—the tight dresses, the cropped tops, the jeans that show off every inch of my ass—I push to the right, behind the jackets I never wear, as far back as they'll go. It takes forty-five minutes and I'm sweating by the end, but when I step back and look at the organized rows, I feel something close to peace.

I close the closet door and lean against it.

Maybe now he'll notice me.

The thought is so pathetic, so raw, that I let out a laugh that sounds more like a sob. I press my hand over my mouth and slide down the door until I'm sitting on the floor, knees pulled up to my chest, staring at nothing.

I made a vow last night. I promised myself I would never tell him how I feel, never reach for him, never let him see the want in my eyes. I would be his friend. Whatever piece of himself he was willing to give me, I would take it and call it enough.

But a small part of me—the part I can't seem to kill no matter how hard I try—still wants him to notice. Still wants him to look at me like he did that first day in the parking lot, when his eyes raked over my body and he called me Princesa like it was a promise I was too stupid to run from.

Maybe he'll notice me now, I think, and the thought tastes like copper and salt. Like the tears I swallowed last night. Like the hope I can't seem to let die, no matter how many times it's been buried.

My phone buzzes in my purse. I don't need to look to know who it is.

I don't check it until I've changed into the navy sweater and a pair of loose jeans. I don't check it until I've made myself a cup of coffee and sat down at the tiny kitchen table. I don't check it until I've stared at the wall for ten minutes, building up the nerve.

Four texts from Mateo. The first one was sent last night, right after I'd fled the garage. The rest are spaced across the morning.

Princesa. Where'd you go?

Val. Answer your phone.

I saw you leave. Talk to me.

I'm not gonna text again after this. But I need you to know—whatever you think you saw, you're wrong.

I read the last one three times. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, and I feel the pull to respond, to ask what he means, to give in to the part of me that's already making excuses for him. She kissed him. He didn't kiss her back. Maybe he was surprised. Maybe he didn't know how to stop her. Maybe—

No.

I set the phone down, face-down on the table, and take a sip of my coffee. It's bitter. I didn't add sugar. It tastes like the morning after a night of crying, and I drink it anyway.

I made a promise to myself. I meant it.

But the words he said—you're wrong—they circle in my head like a song I can't shake, and I know, even as I try to bury it, that the small part of me that still preens when he calls me Princesa isn't going anywhere.

It's still there. Waiting. Hoping.

I finish my coffee, rinse the mug, and put it in the drying rack. Then I walk back to my bedroom and stand in front of the closet, staring at the two halves of my wardrobe. The old me, pushed to the back. The new me, ready and waiting.

I reach for the gray sweater again.

Maybe he'll notice me now that I look like something he already has.

The thought is a knife, and I let it twist.

I wake up to gray light filtering through my curtains and a hollow pit where my stomach should be.

For a long moment I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, letting the morning settle around me. The gray sweater is draped over the chair where I left it last night, neatly folded, waiting. I reach for my phone on the nightstand. No new messages from Mateo. The last one still glows at the bottom of the thread—you're wrong—and I swipe it away before I can read it again.

I shower. I take my time, letting the hot water run until it starts to cool, and I stand there with my forehead against the tile, breathing steam into my lungs. My body feels foreign this morning, like I'm wearing someone else's skin. The curves that usually make me feel powerful feel heavy. My breasts, usually lifted and proud in a tight crop top, feel like something I need to hide.

I dry off and stand in front of the closet, naked, staring at the two halves of my wardrobe. My hand hovers over the right side—the old clothes, the tight dresses, the crop tops that show off every inch of my body—but I pull back. I already made my choice. I reach for the gray sweater.

It's soft. I hate it. It covers everything I want him to see.

But maybe—maybe this is what he wants. Maybe he'll look at me differently if I don't look like I'm trying. Maybe he'll see me, and not just my body.

The thought is so pathetic it makes my eyes sting, but I don't let the tears fall. I pull on the sweater and a pair of loose jeans that hide the curve of my hips, and I don't check the mirror because I already know I'll hate what I see.

I grab my bag and walk out the door before I can talk myself into changing.

The walk to school is longer than usual. Every step feels like I'm dragging something heavier than my own body. The morning air is cool, and I pull the sweater tighter around me, wishing I had a jacket. Wishing I had his jacket. Wishing I had anything that would make this feel less like I'm walking toward my own execution.

The parking lot comes into view too quickly. Cars are already lined up, students milling around, and I spot the black motorcycle before I see him. It's parked in its usual spot, gleaming under the morning light, and my chest tightens.

I slow my pace. I scan the crowd for him and find him leaning against the wall near the entrance, one boot propped behind him, a cigarette burning between his fingers. His dark hair is slicked back, his leather jacket open over a white T-shirt that stretches across his chest, and the silver cross catches the light when he moves.

He looks up. And his eyes find me.

For a second—just a second—I think I see something flicker across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or curiosity. But then it's gone, replaced by that slow, dangerous smile I've been trying to forget.

I keep walking. I don't slow down. I don't speed up. My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it from here.

I make it to the entrance without stopping, without looking at him, and I push through the doors into the empty hallway. My hands are shaking. I press them flat against my thighs and take a breath.

I made a vow. I can do this.

The first two periods pass in a blur. I sit in the back of every class, staring at the whiteboard without seeing a single word, counting the minutes until lunch. My phone stays silent in my pocket. I don't check it. I don't let myself hope.

When the bell rings for lunch, I make my way to the cafeteria. I don't have anyone to sit with. It's my first day, and I haven't made friends yet. I grab a tray and find an empty table near the window, setting my things down, trying to look like I'm not as alone as I feel.

I'm halfway through picking at a sandwich I don't want when I feel someone watching me. I look up.

Mateo is standing at the entrance of the cafeteria, his tray in hand, his dark eyes fixed on me. He's surrounded by other people—guys in letterman jackets, girls with perfect hair and perfect smiles—but he's not looking at them. He's looking at me.

He says something I can't hear to the guy next to him, then breaks away from the group and walks toward my table. Every step feels like it's in slow motion. I feel every eye in the room track him, track me, and I have to fight the urge to shrink into my chair.

He sets his tray down across from me and sits.

"Princesa."

My breath catches. The word lands in my chest like a stone dropped into still water, and I feel the ripple all the way down to my toes.

"Mateo." I keep my voice level. Neutral. Like it doesn't mean anything.

He studies me for a long moment, his eyes traveling over my gray sweater, my loose jeans, the way I'm sitting with my shoulders slightly hunched. I see the question forming in his gaze before he asks it.

"You look different today."

I shrug. "I felt like a change."

"You hate it."

The statement catches me off guard. I blink, and he's watching me with that same unreadable expression, like he already knows the answer.

"I don't hate it," I say, but the lie tastes thin on my tongue.

He leans back in his chair, his arms crossing over his chest. The tattoos on his forearms catch the light, dark ink curling up toward his sleeves, and I remember how those arms felt wrapped around me when he steadied me on his bike. I shove the memory down.

"You look uncomfortable," he says. "Like you're wearing someone else's clothes."

I don't answer. I can't. Because he's right, and hearing him say it makes the ache in my chest worse.

He picks up his sandwich and takes a bite, chewing slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. Silence settles between us, but it's not awkward. It's charged, like the air before a storm, and I feel the heat creeping up my neck despite myself.

I finish my sandwich in silence. He finishes his. Neither of us speaks, but the tension between us builds with every passing second, thick and unspoken.

When I stand to throw away my tray, he stands too.

"I need to talk to you," he says, his voice low. "Not here."

I want to say no. I want to walk away and keep my vow intact, keep the wall I've built between us standing. But my feet don't move, and my mouth opens before I can stop it.

"Where?"

He gestures toward the back door of the cafeteria, the one that leads to the courtyard behind the gym. I know that spot. It's hidden, secluded, where students go to smoke and make out and pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist.

Every rational part of me screams to refuse. But I nod, and I follow him out the door.

The courtyard is empty at this hour. The lunch rush hasn't reached this corner yet, and the only sounds are the distant hum of traffic and the rustle of leaves in the warm breeze. He stops under a tree and turns to face me, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his jaw tight.

"You ran last night," he says. "Before I could explain."

I wrap my arms around myself. "There's nothing to explain. I saw what I saw."

"You saw her kiss me. You didn't see me push her away."

I look up at him, and something in his eyes makes my stomach flip. He looks frustrated, but there's something else there too. Something raw.

"Why do you care?" I ask. "It's not like we're—" I stop myself before the word slips out, but he catches it anyway.

"We're not what?"

I look away. "We're nothing, Mateo. We're just—we're just people who know each other."

He steps closer, and I feel the heat radiating off his body. I don't step back. I can't.

"Is that what you want?"

The question lands hard. I want to say yes. I want to tell him that's exactly what I want, that I'm fine being nothing, that I can handle this. But the words stick in my throat, and what comes out instead is, "It's what you want, isn't it?"

He's quiet for a long moment. Then he sighs, running a hand through his hair, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer. "I told you. I'm not a good guy."

"I know."

"Then why are you still here?"

I look at him. Really look at him. At the dark eyes that hold too many secrets, at the cross resting against his chest, at the hands that look like they know how to hold a woman but are shoved so deep in his pockets they might as well be chained.

"Because I don't have anyone else," I say, and the truth of it cuts deeper than I expected. "I'm new here. I don't know anyone. And for some stupid reason, I feel like I can talk to you."

He watches me, and something in his expression shifts. Softens, almost. "So you want to be friends?"

The word sounds strange in his mouth. Foreign. Like he's not used to saying it.

"Yes," I say, and I hate how small my voice sounds. "If you can do that."

He lets out a breath that's almost a laugh. "I don't know if I can, Princesa. I'm not exactly the friendly type."

"Try."

I say it like a dare. Like a challenge. And I see the spark of something dangerous light up in his eyes.

"And if I can't?" he asks. "If I fuck it up?"

I let a small smile play at my lips. "Then I'll find someone else to bother."

He laughs then—a real laugh, low and warm, and the sound does something to my chest that I refuse to name. He shakes his head, looking at me like I'm a puzzle he can't solve, and for the first time all day, I feel like I'm standing on solid ground.

"Fine," he says. "We can be friends."

He says it like it's a compromise. Like he's giving in to something he shouldn't. But there's a look in his eyes that tells me he doesn't believe it any more than I do.

He takes a step back. Puts distance between us. And I feel the cool air rush into the space he left behind.

"But I'm warning you," he says, his voice dropping. "I don't get close to people. I don't do sleepovers and late-night calls and all that shit. I don't let people in."

"I'm not asking you to."

"Good." He holds my gaze for a long moment, and then he turns and walks back toward the cafeteria, leaving me standing alone under the tree, the word friends burning on my tongue like a lie I'm not ready to swallow.

I wait until he's out of sight before I let myself breathe.

My hands are shaking. My heart is pounding. And the small, pathetic part of me that I promised to kill is already whispering that this is a start. That maybe, if I'm patient enough, he'll let me in.

I close my eyes and press my palm to my chest, feeling the frantic beat beneath my ribs.

I made a vow. I meant it.

But the distance he keeps feels like a wall I'm already desperate to climb, and I'm not sure how long I can pretend I'm okay standing on the other side.

I force my legs to move, to carry me back toward the school building. The tree's shade felt like a hiding place, but I can't hide forever. I have a locker to find, a schedule to memorize, a whole day of being the new girl stretched out in front of me.

The hallways are thinning out—people heading to class, to lunch, to anywhere but here. I pull my shoulders back, lift my chin, and let my hips sway the way they do when I want to be seen. I feel the eyes on me. A couple of guys slow down, one of them whistles low. I don't look. That's not what I'm looking for.

I turn the corner toward the senior lockers, and that's when I see him.

Mateo. Leaning against a row of lockers, arms crossed, that leather jacket hanging open over his chest. The silver cross catches the fluorescent light, and his tattoos crawl up his forearms like dark vines. He's talking to someone. A girl. She's pressed up against the locker next to him, laughing at something he said, her hand on his arm like she owns it.

My stomach drops.

She's pretty. Thin, blonde, the kind of girl who looks like she's been here forever, who knows exactly where she belongs. She touches his shoulder, leans in close, and he doesn't pull away. He doesn't lean in either, but he doesn't push her off.

I stop walking. My feet feel nailed to the floor.

The hope I'd been carrying—that fragile, stupid little thing that fluttered in my chest when he called me Princesa—cracks right down the middle. I feel it break, feel the sharp edges of it cutting something I didn't know was tender.

Of course. Of course he has girls. Look at him. Look at the way he stands, the way his mouth curves into that half-smile, the way his eyes wander like he's already bored. I'm not special. I'm just the new one, the novelty, the girl with the big tits and no bra who walked across the parking lot like she owned it. That's all I am to him.

I should turn around. Walk the other way. Pretend I didn't see him, pretend I don't care, pretend that word—Princesa—didn't burn itself into my skin the moment he said it.

But I don't move.

And then he looks up.

His eyes find mine across the hallway, and the world narrows to that one beat of silence. The blonde is still talking, still touching him, but he's not looking at her anymore. He's looking at me. And there's something in his gaze that wasn't there before—a flicker of recognition, of heat, of a door that cracked open this morning and hasn't fully closed.

He noticed.

He noticed the closing. The way I said friends like a lie, the way I let him walk away without fighting. He saw it all, and he's still looking at me like he's seeing something he can't quite name.

The blonde follows his gaze. She looks at me, and her smile falters. And then she says something to him, sharp and quick, and when she turns back to me, her eyes are cold.

I should look away. I should act like I don't care. But my body has a mind of its own, and instead of retreating, I walk toward them.

My steps are slow. Deliberate. Every sway of my hips is a statement—I'm here, I'm not intimidated, and I'm not going anywhere. The blonde's eyes drop to my chest, then narrow. I see her grip tighten on his arm, a possessive little gesture that makes me want to laugh.

Mateo's eyes track me the whole way. He doesn't straighten, doesn't push off the locker, but his posture shifts. He uncrosses his arms. His jaw tightens, just a fraction.

"Mateo," I say, stopping a few feet away. I let my voice carry that edge of teasing, of confidence I'm faking until it feels real. "Didn't know you had a fan club."

The blonde's mouth opens, but he speaks first. "Princesa." The word rolls off his tongue slow, like he's tasting it. "This is… a friend."

He doesn't introduce her. He doesn't even look at her when he says it. His eyes are on me, dark and unreadable, and I feel the heat crawling up my spine.

"Friend," I repeat. I let the word hang. "Right. That's what we are too."

"We are?" The blonde's voice is sharp. She turns to him, her hand dropping from his arm. "Who is this?"

Mateo sighs. He finally looks at her, and there's a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. "New girl. First day."

That's all he says. New girl. No explanation. No defense. Just those two words, like I'm nothing more than a curiosity.

The hope I felt earlier—the fragile, stupid thing—shatters completely now. I feel it crumble into dust, and in its place, something colder settles in my chest. Something that says I'm not going to be dismissed. Not by her. Not by him.

"I'm Valentina," I say, directing it at the blonde. I hold out my hand, not to shake, but to let her see my nails, the silver rings on my fingers. "But you can call me Val."

She doesn't take it. Her gaze flicks down to my chest again, then back up to my face. "I'm sure I'll remember you."

"I bet you will."

She clicks her tongue, mutters something under her breath, and walks away. Her footsteps echo down the hallway, and then she's gone, leaving me alone with Mateo, the space between us charged with something I can't name.

He's still leaning against the lockers, but his hands are in his pockets now, and there's a tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before. "You didn't have to do that."

"Do what?" I ask, innocent. "Introduce myself?"

"You know what."

I shrug. "She was touching you. I don't share."

His eyes narrow. "We're not—"

"I know. We're friends." I say it fast, before he can finish, because I don't want to hear it again. "But I'm not going to pretend I didn't see the way you looked at me just now."

"And how was that?"

I step closer. Close enough to smell him—leather and smoke and something warm underneath. "Like you wanted me to stay."

He doesn't move. Doesn't back away. His voice drops, low and rough. "Princesa, I told you—"

"I know what you told me." I'm close now, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the tiny scar above his eyebrow. "But words are cheap, Mateo. You said we could be friends. You said you don't let people in. But you're still standing here, talking to me, when you could have walked away."

"Maybe I'm just being polite."

"Bullshit." I smile, slow and sharp. "You're not the polite type."

He lets out a breath that's almost a laugh. He shakes his head, running a hand through his slicked-back hair, and for a second, the mask slips. I see something raw underneath—something tired, something that looks almost like hunger.

"You're dangerous," he says, and the way he says it, it sounds less like an observation and more like a warning.

"So are you."

We stand there, the hallway emptying around us, the bell about to ring, and I feel the push and pull of it—the distance he's determined to keep, the invisible wall between us that I am already finding ways to climb.

He's a liar. We both know it. He said he doesn't get close to people, but he's still here, still looking at me like I'm the only thing worth seeing in this godforsaken hallway.

And I'm a liar too. Because I said friends like I meant it, like I could be satisfied with that, when every cell in my body knows that the word "friends" is just the smallest possible door I can open before I kick it down entirely.

"I have to go to class," I say, but I don't move. "Biology. Room 204."

"I know."

Of course he knows. He probably knows every detail about this school, about every person in it. Including me.

"See you around, Princesa."

He says it like a goodbye, but there's a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. And when I turn and walk away, I feel his eyes on me. On the curve of my back. On the sway of my hips. On the thong riding just above the waistband of my jeans.

I don't look back. I don't need to. I feel him watching, and that's enough.

The hope I felt earlier—it's not gone. It's bruised, battered, bleeding. But it's still there, flickering in my chest like a flame that refuses to die.

He noticed me. He noticed the closing. And now, I'm going to make sure he never looks away.

This is just the first day. I have all year to break through that wall.

And I'm patient.