This is a short story and NOT a slow burn.
CHAPTER ONE :
I never truly understood the cliché about never forgetting your first love—not until I actually fell.
At the time, I didn't recognize the feeling. I dismissed it as an ugly infatuation I needed to get rid of . And my assumptions about him? I'd pegged him as a pervert, someone who just wanted to watch me undress and ravish me—a line I refused to cross with any man who hadn't traded vows with me first.
Maybe I was incredibly old-fashioned, but I had no desire to open my legs for every "morally grey" guy who masqueraded as a green flag. I wanted to wait. I didn't necessarily expect a man to do the same; I'd always believed male self-control was roughly the size of a mustard seed.
I wasn't innocent—far from it. I'd seen the movies and read the books with the heavy sexual scenes; I knew, theoretically, how to please a man. Mentally, I was a scholar of the subject, but physically? I was an untouched landscape.
I was fifteen when it happened. Some might say that's too young to know love, but love specializes in the element of surprise.
It was my second week at Mindsgate High School—a name as weird as the student body. I walked through the school gates with my face set in a cold, grim mask, ignoring the sea of faces around me as I always did. My dad had dropped me off with his usual "stay away from boys" talk; it was agonizing.
I wasn't here to make friends. After two weeks of observation, I'd concluded that most of these people were blockheads who couldn't tell the difference between "I'm" and "I am." I wasn't ready to lose a single brain cell interacting with them.
I headed straight for the assembly hall, my boots thudding rhythmically against the floor. As I stepped inside, my gaze wandered lazily across the rows of students. That's when I saw him.
Orton Jay.
He was striking in a way that felt almost unfair. He had sharp, angular features that looked like they'd been carved by a god, contrasted by a pair of blue , sleepy orbs that seemed to find everything around him vaguely amusing. His hair was a messy dark curls, and his skin had a pale, translucent quality to it. He looked like a tragic poet who had accidentally wandered into a high school gym.
I thought he was queer at first. He was always with his best friend, Iver, his hand draped over Iver's shoulder or their fingers intertwined in a way that lacked any "masculinity." To any outsider, they looked like a couple. I wasn't against the concept of being gay or bisexual, though I found the idea of transitioning appalling. Still, I thought Orton and Iver were cute; they looked like they'd stepped right out of a BL manga.
"That's Orton."
The voice came from directly behind me, snapping the thread of my thoughts. I scrunched my nose and turned toward the hyperactive girl who had been tailing me since my first day. Her voice was peachy, high-pitched, and grating.
Blanche? Bethany? Brittany?
I couldn't remember her name, even though she was determined not to let me feel "left out." I desperately wanted to be left out, but I didn't have the heart to tell her off nicely. For the first time, I actually looked at her, scanning her from head to toe.
She was beautiful. Her caramel skin seemed to glow in the dim light, a perfect match for her deep brown eyes. Her hair, a blend of black and dirty brown, was woven into meticulous braids. She wore a stained grey sweater over her uniform, yet somehow, she still looked radiant.
Her short navy blue skirt clung to her frame, showing off her curves and a figure I could only dream of.
I felt a sharp, bitter tinge of jealousy. She had everything: the body, the face. The only thing she seemed to lack was a functioning brain and the social awareness to realize when she wasn't wanted.
I shifted uncomfortably, taking two deliberate steps away from her and refocusing on the assembly podium. But, as usual, she didn't take the hint; she just kept chirping.
"He's been staring at you," she gushed, her voice a stage whisper. "Honestly, half the seniors have been."
I frowned, my gaze drifting from the chubby, fair-skinned principal—who was currently droning on about "modesty" and "God"—over to the seniors' corner.
He was staring.
Our eyes locked for a split second, and I jerked my head away immediately, my face burning with a sudden, traitorous heat.
"Oh my gosh, you guys would be so cute together!" B—whatever her name was—giggled. I didn't miss the faint, unrecognizable tremor in her voice. It hung in the air for a moment, heavy and unspoken, but I brushed it off.
"Mmm," I hummed, making it clear I wasn't interested in getting mushy or friendly.
"Be careful, though," she added, her tone dropping. "He has a bit of a player reputation."
I rolled my eyes. Of course. It was the typical, cliché Wattpad setup. What was next? I'd be the one to "change" him and make him believe in love again? I almost laughed at the sheer absurdity of the thought. "
"Ophelia?"
My fingers froze on the keyboard. The voice was familiar— something I had tried desperately to forget over the years.
It couldn't be.
It had been seven years. He was in Canada. There was no reason for him to be standing here, in this cage, at this moment. I stayed still, praying silently that it was just a trick of my mind or a stranger with a hauntingly similar baritone.
Slowly, my heart hammering against my ribs, I looked up. My breath hitched.
"Orton."