YOU SHOOK YOUR HEAD, pushing the thoughts away. There was no use trying to understand Matt or his cryptic comments. He was just another Crimson, and you knew better than to get involved with people like him.

You took a deep breath and stood up, slinging your bag over your shoulder. The hallway was bustling, students laughing and talking, lockers slamming.

You kept your head down, weaving through the crowd, heading towards your next class.

But even as you tried to focus on the rest of your day, you couldn't shake the feeling of Matt's eyes on you, as if he could see right through the walls you'd built.

You reached your locker and spun the combination lock absentmindedly. The door swung open, revealing a neat row of textbooks and notebooks, each labeled and organized.

A small mirror was taped to the inside of the door, and you caught a glimpse of your reflection. Your hair was still perfectly styled, makeup just right, clothes carefully chosen to fit in with the other Embers.

You stared at yourself for a moment, the perfect picture of who you were supposed to be. And yet, Matt's words echoed in your mind. "Can you say the same?" he'd asked, as if he knew something you didn't.

"Hey, you okay?" Rowan asked again, her voice slicing through the noise of the hallway, breaking the spell that had settled over you. You blinked, struggling to ground yourself in the present.

You hadn't realized she was standing so close, her expression open but still, as if she'd noticed something was off.

But she hadn't been there in class; she couldn't have seen the mess that had just unfolded with Matt. Still, the tension that lingered between you and the memory of his words felt thick, impossible to hide.

"Yeah," you replied, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. "Just thinking about the project i already got. Mr. Hanson, the history teacher... really knows how to kill a mood, huh?"

Rowan didn't seem convinced, but she let it slide for now, her gaze softening as she leaned against the locker beside yours. "History project on the first day back? Brutal." She smiled, but there was something behind it, like she could feel the tension you weren't sharing.

The hallway buzzed with students rushing to their next classes, but you felt separate from them, like the world had slowed around you. Your heart still raced from that encounter with Matt, his mocking voice, the sharp edge to his words.

You tried to push it down, lock it away, but it clung to you, the way he had seen right through the façade you'd built over the summer.

Rowan tilted her head, curiosity lighting up her green eyes. "Did something happen? You look like you've seen a ghost."

You shifted, feeling the weight of her attention. She didn't know, couldn't know—but she was too perceptive, too quick to notice the cracks in your composure.

"I'm fine," you said, too quickly. "Just... not a fan of group projects. Especially when you get stuck with someone who doesn't want to be there."

Her eyes flicked over your face, but before she could respond, you caught a glimpse of movement at the end of the hall.

Matt.

He was walking toward you, his stride slow, deliberate, as if he owned every inch of the space he passed through. His dark eyes were fixed on you, a small smirk playing on his lips like he knew a secret you didn't.

The air around him seemed to change, charged with something dangerous and sharp, something that made your pulse quicken with both unease and... curiosity?

You stiffened, feeling like you were trapped in his gaze. Rowan must have noticed the change in your posture, because she glanced over her shoulder, following your line of sight. But by the time she turned, Matt had already slipped into a nearby classroom, disappearing into the sea of students.

"Who was that?" Rowan asked, her tone lighter than before, but you could feel the shift in her attention. She wasn't going to let this go.

"Just a guy from class," you muttered, pretending to fumble with your locker. "No one important."

But it wasn't nothing. You could still feel his presence lingering, like a shadow that refused to leave. Every word he'd said still replayed in your head, gnawing at you.

And worse—there was something almost exhilarating about it. The way he'd looked at you, not with the shallow dismissiveness you were used to, but with a kind of intensity that made you feel exposed.

Rowan leaned in a little closer, eyes narrowing slightly. "I don't know about you, but I'm pretty good at spotting things—and that guy wasn't giving 'nothing important' vibes."

You opened your mouth to deny it, but just then, the bell rang, cutting off the conversation. Relief flooded through you, but it was short-lived. You couldn't shake the tension crawling under your skin.

"We should get to class," you said, turning sharply on your heel, hoping to escape the conversation—and Matt's ghostly presence.

Rowan followed, her footsteps light but her gaze heavy. She didn't push any further, but you could tell by the way she stayed close that she wasn't letting this go.

____________

The rest of the day passed in a blur of classes, assignments, and half-hearted conversations. You did your best to focus on anything but the tension that had clouded the air in history class. Matt wasn't worth your energy, and you refused to let him live rent-free in your mind.

Still, there was no escaping the reality of the project. If you didn't confront him about it, nothing would get done—and you weren't about to let someone like Matt tank your grade.

By the time the last bell rang, you had made up your mind. If Matt wanted to act like the world's biggest jerk, fine, but you'd deal with him directly and get it over with. You weren't about to let him call the shots.

You found him by the side of the school, leaning against a brick wall with a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips. He was alone, which suited you just fine.

The few students passing by didn't seem to notice or care that Matt was even there. That was the thing with guys like him—they could fade into the background when they wanted to, but somehow, they always managed to leave an impression.

Taking a deep breath, you walked over, your footsteps echoing in the quiet corner of the courtyard. You stood a few feet away from him, waiting for him to acknowledge you. When he didn't, you cleared your throat, folding your arms.

"We need to talk about the project," you said, keeping your tone neutral.

Matt didn't bother looking at you right away. He took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling smoke slowly before turning his head just enough to glance at you. His expression was unreadable, cold.

"Oh, so you want to talk now?" he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Thought you were too good for that."

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. "I don't care about whatever game you're playing. We both know this project needs to get done. Let's just figure it out."

Matt flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his boot, his eyes locking onto yours for the first time. There was something dark in his gaze, a silent challenge and it scared you.

"Figure it out, huh?" he repeated, his tone mocking. "You think you can just come here and play the little responsible Ember, telling me what to do?"

You met his stare, refusing to back down. "I'm not telling you what to do. I'm telling you we need to pass this class. If you don't care, fine. But we're stuck with each other, and I'm not about to let you fail me."

Matt pushed off the wall, stepping closer. The space between you was barely there, his height casting a shadow over you. He wasn't touching you, but you could feel the weight of his presence, like a quiet threat lingering in the air.

"You don't get it, do you?" he muttered, voice low, almost dangerous. "This isn't about passing or failing for me. I don't care about your perfect little grade."

The cold edge in his voice cut through the air, but you refused to flinch. "What do you care about, Matt? Because right now, it just looks like you enjoy making my life harder for no reason."

His lips curled into a humorless smile, but it wasn't warm. It was the kind of smile that told you he wasn't going to give you anything easy.

"Maybe I do," he said, his eyes narrowing. "Maybe that's the only fun I get out of this place."

You shook your head, frustrated. "Why are you doing this? What's the point? You don't even know my name, so what is this really about?"

For a split second, something flickered in his expression. It wasn't anger, exactly, but a brief shadow of something deeper, something he quickly buried.

"Doesn't matter," he said, voice flat. "You don't need to understand me. Just stay in your lane, do your part, and I'll do mine. We'll both get what we want."

You clenched your jaw, holding back a retort. There was no point in arguing with him. He wasn't going to open up, and frankly, you didn't want to dig into whatever was hiding behind that mask. But you weren't about to let him control this either.

"Fine," you said, your voice sharp. "Then let's meet up after school tomorrow. Library. I'll bring the materials, and we can get this done. That's all I'm asking."

Matt studied you for a moment, his gaze piercing, as if he was trying to figure out whether you were bluffing. Finally, he gave a small shrug.

"Whatever," he muttered. "But don't expect me to stay long. I've got better things to do."

Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there with the weight of his indifference still hanging in the air.

You let out a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding, tension coiling in your chest.

This wasn't going to be easy—working with Matt was like navigating a minefield, but you weren't going to let him win.

You'd get through the project, and then you'd forget he ever existed. That was the plan. It had to be.

Later that evening, you sat at the kitchen counter, staring at the untouched dinner in front of you. The house was quiet, as usual, the kind of silence that filled the space when no one else was around.

Your parents were home, technically, but they might as well have been miles away.

The clink of your fork against the plate echoed in the large, empty room. You half-expected to hear the door open, for them to come down and ask how your day was, but you knew better.

They'd been distant for a while, too wrapped up in their own worlds to notice much of anything outside their business meetings, charity events, and endless work trips.

You glanced at the clock. It was nearly 8 PM. Your mother had mentioned something about an important call, and your father had locked himself in his study hours ago, reviewing God knows what.

You had tried to make peace with the fact that your parents' version of "being present" meant occasional check-ins or the rare family dinner, but tonight, the absence felt heavier than usual.

Maybe it was because of the way the day had gone. The tension that had settled like a knot in your stomach. Or maybe it was just the realization that, despite everything, you wanted someone to care.

Even if it was just a simple "How was your day?" You didn't want to have to keep holding it all in, pretending like nothing got to you.

You pushed your plate aside, the food barely touched, and leaned back in your chair.

"Mom? Dad?" you called out, your voice breaking the stillness. You weren't even sure what you were going to say, but maybe—just maybe—they'd listen this time.

A few seconds passed before your mother's voice drifted down the stairs. "Sweetie, can it wait? I'm on a call with the board, and it's really important." Her voice was smooth, professional, the kind of tone she used when talking to clients or partners, not her daughter.

You sighed, trying not to feel the familiar sting of disappointment. "Yeah, sure," you muttered, knowing she probably didn't hear you.

Your father didn't respond at all. The study door remained closed, the light seeping through the crack under the door like a barrier you didn't have the energy to cross.

You stared down at your phone, scrolling aimlessly, searching for distractions that wouldn't come. For a brief moment, you thought about texting Rowan. She'd been a bright spot in an otherwise frustrating day, and you could use her light-hearted banter right about now.

But something stopped you. She didn't need to be dragged into this—you barely knew her, and this wasn't the kind of thing you dumped on someone you just met.

Instead, you stood up, leaving the kitchen in silence as you headed toward the stairs. You paused at the base of the staircase, looking up toward your father's study door again.

You debated knocking, telling him about the day, maybe even bringing up the project, but the thought of being brushed off again—like you always were—left a sour taste in your mouth.

Instead, you turned away and made your way to your room. The walls were familiar, lined with carefully chosen art pieces and books, all curated to fit the image you'd been building. The perfect daughter, the perfect Ember.

Everything was polished, just like you had been taught. But beneath the surface, it felt hollow, like you were living someone else's life.

You threw your bag onto the floor and collapsed onto your bed, the soft sheets welcoming you. Staring up at the ceiling, your thoughts wandered.

With a frustrated sigh, you sat up and pulled your laptop from the nightstand. If your parents weren't going to be here, at least you could start working on the project alone.

Maybe if you buried yourself in research, in facts and dates, you could forget about the way Matt had looked at you.

As the screen lit up, you typed in your search, the glow of the computer casting shadows on the walls.

The historical topic for your project was something about revolutions—how ordinary people were forced into extraordinary circumstances. It was fitting, in a way, though you didn't want to think too hard about why.