The hallway smells like chalk and cheap cologne. You've been leaning against Ava's locker for the past ten minutes, close enough to catch the vanilla in her hair. She's been laughing at everything you say, cheeks flushed, fingers brushing your arm just a second too long. Classic signals. You've read this scene a hundred times. Then the footsteps stop. You don't need to turn around to know. The air shifts. Ava's smile doesn't disappear - it tightens, like she's been waiting for exactly this. Her boyfriend is behind you, textbooks clutched to his chest, jaw locked. Something about her expression tells you this was never just flirting.