Damon sat in class, the sun warming his face, his head still throbbing from the fresh stitches "she" had given him.
And somehow—impossibly—he was already in love. How is that even possible? he asked himself. But the truth was, everything about her intrigued him.
Was it just because she was new? Or was it the lingering haze from the car crash? His palms grew clammy, his mind racing a mile a minute. He clenched his jaw and stayed quiet.
Mr. Adams gestured for her to find a seat, and like any high school, the whispers and stares followed her every step. She kept her eyes down, weaving through the desks until—of course—the only open spot was right next to Damon.
Trying not to be the awkward new girl who'd literally run someone over, she forced a small smile. "Hey, you. How's the head?"
Damon, nerves twisting his stomach, just sank deeper into his seat, mute.
With a new student in class, the test was postponed. So much for his reason to be here today. Might as well add another useless day to the resume, he thought bitterly, glaring at the clock like he could will time to move faster. The second the bell rang, he was out the door—fast.
Even Caleb, who'd seen Damon around plenty of girls, had never seen him so flustered. Shocking.
Isabella watched them leave, confusion knitting her brows. Well, so much for not being the uncomfortable new girl, she muttered to herself before gathering her things and slipping out.
Maybe Damon could've stayed longer. But he still had a job to get to—and he'd like to keep it, at least for a little while.
Caleb finally caught up to Damon after yelling his name down the hallway, only to find him with his entire head stuffed inside his locker like he was trying to disappear.
Caleb rolled his eyes and slapped him on the back—hard. Yeah, his friend was done for. This wasn't some fleeting crush. Damon had been wrecked before, sure—like with Brie, his first girlfriend. They'd dated six months before she moved away, and even though it stung, Damon had shrugged it off.
High school love never lasts, he'd told himself, hollow.
After that? He didn't bother. Not because he couldn't—Damon wasn't some hopeless dork. He was sharp, good-looking in a careless way, but school? Life? None of it mattered after his parents died. The whole perfect future fantasy—grades, college, some soulless job, a wife, kids—made him sick. Their death cracked the world open, shoved reality in his face, and for a while, he just wanted to let go. Caleb hadn't let him.
Now, as students swarmed past their lockers, Damon wished time would hurry the hell up.
Then—an arm slung over Caleb's shoulders, a hand yanked off Damon's back, and suddenly, kissing noises. Damon pulled his head out of the locker, already scowling, and turned to see Caleb and Patrick—his boyfriend—going at it right there in the damn hallway.
As always, they would kiss for five minutes, completely ignoring the world around them. Damon just stood there, watching. He wasn't against their love—he adored his friend, and if that meant tolerating the jock, so be it. They weren't friends, but they weren't enemies either; they just didn't really know each other.
The awkwardness grew unbearable, so Damon started whistling to drown it out. The couple finally broke apart, shooting him a look that said, Dude, seriously? Then came the usual clumsy handshake-fist-bump mishap, which they resolved with a mutual glance. Just as the discomfort threatened to return, the bell rang—thank God—and they all headed toward the bike stands.
That's when Damon realized his bike had been mangled from the crash earlier. Before he could process it, Caleb—while playfully shoving Patrick—offered to drop Damon off at work. They piled into Caleb's blue Porsche nicknamed The Blue Thunderbird, and like any reckless jock, Caleb sped to the mall in minutes.
Glancing at his phone, Caleb cursed—his screen was cracked. Perfect. Another thing to deal with later. But the display still worked, and that's when he saw the time: 4:15 PM. His part-time shift at the movie theater had started fifteen minutes ago.
Panicked, he flung the car door open before it even fully parked and bolted, yanking off his shirt mid-sprint and struggling into his theater vest. As he barreled through the entrance, he collided with someone—a woman.
Blonde. Stunning. Her brown eyes locked onto his, and for a split second, it felt like he knew her. But he had no time. Mumbling a rushed apology, he dashed past before she could respond.
That was the first time he ever saw Esther—in one of her many forms.
He fought his way through the crowd, leaping onto the escalator and shoving past people until he finally reached the theater. And there, arms crossed, stood his manager, waiting at the ticket booth.
Cue Damon's walk of shame.
Damon's manager was Dimitri Petrov—the idiot son of a wealthy Russian businessman who owned the entire mall. The man despised his bastard child but, out of obligation, gave him the one job he couldn't completely ruin: managing the theater. Unfortunately for Damon, that was exactly what Dimitri had done—ruined his life.
By the time Damon finally reached the ticket booth after what might have been the world's slowest walk, he was still breathless and drenched in sweat. Dimitri didn't care. As usual, he launched into a tirade of Russian slurs at the top of his lungs, drawing stares from passing shoppers. The air grew thick with discomfort, but Damon had long since mastered the art of tuning him out. Instead, he imagined Dimitri mid-sentence, suddenly cut off by a bullet to the head. The thought never failed to bring a faint smile to his face.
Then, the words pay cut snapped him back to reality.
"It's my first time being late in weeks," Damon argued, "and it was only fifteen minutes!"
But Dimitri, the relentless asshole, wasn't having it. His favorite line hung between them like a taunt: "If you don't like the job, quit." Damon had no choice. Swallowing his fury, he started his shift seething—his bike broken, his head pounding, his phone cracked, and worst of all, his stomach empty after a day without food.
And then, as if by fate's cruel joke, Isabella walked into the mall with her friend Lucy.
They had decided to catch a movie—though Isabella hadn't wanted to. Her day had already been hell: first, she'd run someone over (on her first damn day driving), and then she'd endured the gauntlet of being the new kid in senior year. But Lucy, ever the relentless best friend, refused to let her wallow. She'd dragged Isabella to the mall under the guise of brain rot therapy, and now here they were.
As they climbed the stairs, Lucy suddenly announced she needed the bathroom, leaving Isabella to buy the tickets alone.
Isabella approached the booth, where Damon's head lay slumped against the counter, desperate for even a few seconds of sleep. Not recognizing him, she rapped her knuckles sharply against the glass—once, twice—until he jerked upright, groggy and irritated.
"The fuck you mind, bitch?" he snapped—then froze.
His stomach dropped. Isabella.
Her glare could've melted steel. For a heartbeat, her fist clenched like she was ready to throw a punch. Then, just as suddenly, she let it drop, staring at him with a look that cut deeper than any swing ever could.