Tom's POV
We walked into Algebra together—well, more like she walked in like she owned the damn place and I just happened to be beside her. Mrs. Green was already at the board, scribbling numbers and letters like her life depended on it, droning about equations in that monotone that could put even the most caffeinated child to sleep. I slid into my usual spot at the back, my safe zone where I could zone out and not deal with people. But, because this week apparently hates me, Imogen plopped herself right into the seat next to mine like it was the most natural thing in the world. No hesitation, no asking, just boom—now she's in my personal space again.
I yanked out my notebook, determined to ignore her completely. No eye contact, no small talk, nothing. Tyler's little scheme, whatever it was, wasn't going to work on me. I'd just keep my head down, scribble through the lesson, and pretend she didn't exist.
But fuck, god decided to play games with me today. Like in art class earlier this week, my hand just… wandered. One second I'm mindlessly doodling shapes, lines, random crap. The next thing I know, my pencil's sketching the curve of a jawline, the fall of hair over a shoulder, the tilt of a neck—Imogen. Of course it was her. Only, I didn't realize it until I looked down and saw it. No face, but the rest was definitely Imogen.
Her shadow fell across the page before I even had a chance to hide it. She leaned in, close enough for me to smell that stupid strawberry shampoo again. "What are you drawing?" she asked, all curious and sweet like she didn't already know she was getting under my skin. I snapped the notebook shut so fast the cover smacked my knuckles. "None of your damn business," I muttered through gritted teeth.
Her eyes narrowed just a fraction, but her lips curled up like she'd just solved some puzzle. "Is it me? It looked like me," she said, head tilted, smile creeping wider "How the hell would you know? It didn't even have a face," I shot back, my voice tight. She didn't even flinch. "It's me, isn't it? You finally drew me." She said it like she'd been waiting for this moment her whole life, like I'd just confessed some huge secret.
"It's not," I said flatly, but even I could hear the frustration—and yeah, maybe a little amusement—bleeding into my tone. Her grin only widened, like she knew she'd hit a nerve.
We sat in this weird, stretched-out silence, the kind that makes you too aware of every little sound—the scrape of a pencil, the hum of the lights, Mrs. Green muttering about variables at the front. I kept my eyes glued to my desk, pretending to be interested in absolutely nothing.
Then, out of nowhere, her hand came up and brushed against my cheek—a quick, light caress that sent a jolt straight through me before I could even react. She turned my face toward her, her fingers warm against my skin, and suddenly we were way too close.
"I dare you," she said softly, voice steady but not cold, "look me dead in the eyes and tell me that drawing—that girl—isn't me."
No teasing in her tone this time. No smug grin. Just… her, staring straight into me, like she could peel me open if she looked long enough.
And I hated that it worked.
I hated that she was tangled up in Tyler's bullshit, hated that I didn't know what the hell her real game was, hated that she could sit here and make me feel like I was the one in the wrong. But most of all, I hated the idea of lying to her. Because deep down, I knew she wasn't a bad person. She wasn't cruel. She wasn't him.
The truth sat heavy in my throat, but I swallowed it down.
After a moment, I reached up and took her wrist—not rough, just enough to move her hand away from my face. My eyes dropped to my desk like they had all the answers I'd been avoiding.
I didn't say it. I couldn't.
And judging by the look in her eyes, I didn't have to.