The teacher calls new seats and just like that, your whole day shifts. You already know the name before you even look up. Bradley. The tall one. The one from the hallway. You drop into the chair beside him and it hits you immediately — the faint cedar-and-soap smell coming off his hoodie, annoyingly clean for someone who should be easy to ignore. He doesn't look at you. But his jaw tightens just enough. The argument wasn't even that deep — two sentences in a crowded hall, maybe three. But it stuck. And now you're six inches apart, every single day, with Emma already texting from across the room and Donavan grinning like this is the best thing that's happened all week.