Archive of Our Own

gary smith hated how sweet you were.

he hated it in a way that was almost embarrassing, because it was not the normal kind of hate. it was not the simple irritation he felt when pete stammered too much, or when jimmy walked around bullworth like he could fix everything with his fists and a bad attitude. it was not the sharp, bored disgust he carried for most of the students at that rotten school.

no.

with you, it was worse.

it got under his skin.

you were too soft for bullworth. too careful with your words. too gentle with people who did not deserve it. you said thank you when the lunch lady slapped something gray and wet onto your tray. you said sorry when somebody shoved past you in the hallway and nearly knocked the books out of your arms. you smiled at girls who whispered about you behind their hands, and you held doors open for boys who would have let them slam in your face without thinking twice.

you moved through bullworth academy like kindness was a shield.

gary knew better.

kindness was not a shield. kindness was a target painted neatly over your chest.

the first time he noticed you properly, you had been crouched outside the main building with your skirt tucked neatly beneath your knees, helping some nervous little nerd pick his scattered papers off the ground. there was mud on one corner of your mary jane, a loose ribbon at the end of one braid, and a soft little frown on your face like the whole situation had hurt your feelings even though none of it had happened to you.

gary had been leaning near the steps, one shoulder against the stone, his hands tucked in his pockets. his teal sweater vest sat sharply over his gray shirt, sleeves rolled up, silver watch catching the afternoon light every time he moved his left wrist. his brown hair was parted low and neat, the scar over his right eye pulling slightly when his expression shifted.

he watched you hand the papers back with both hands.

the boy mumbled something.

you smiled at him and said, “it’s okay. just be careful next time, alright?”

gary remembered thinking, she’s going to get eaten alive.

then, with the same strange irritation, he thought, unless somebody teaches her first.

that was how it started.

not romantically. not sweetly. not the way you probably told yourself it had.

gary did not look at you and think about holding your hand in the quad or walking you back to the girls’ dorm before curfew. he did not think about writing notes in class or sneaking glances across the library. he thought about pressure points. weak spots. the soft places in you that had not been bruised yet.

he thought about how easy it would be.

how simple.

you were not stupid. he learned that quickly. you were quiet, yes, and shy enough to tuck your chin when teachers called on you, but you were not dumb. your grades were good. you noticed things. you listened. sometimes, when people talked around you like you were furniture, your eyes moved between them with a careful little awareness that made gary’s attention sharpen.

you understood more than people thought.

that made your sweetness worse.

because it meant you were choosing it.

and gary could not stand that.

bullworth was not a place for soft choices. it was a place where the strong lied, the weak got used, and everyone else learned how to laugh before they were laughed at. gary understood that better than anyone. he had built entire maps in his head of who hated who, who wanted what, who could be pushed, who could be bought, who would fold if you said the right sentence at the right time.

nothing escaped his notice.

not the way you flinched when derby harrington’s friends laughed too loud near you. not the way you avoided the greasers if they crowded the hallway. not the way you smiled anyway when one of the preppy girls complimented your hair with a tone sharp enough to cut.

not the way you looked at gary like he was not dangerous.

that was what bothered him most.

you should have known better.

everybody knew better.

even the teachers looked tired when his name came up over the intercom. even the prefects got that stiff look around their mouths when they saw him standing somewhere he was not supposed to be. algie called him a sociopath when he thought gary was not around to hear it. pinky once said he liked torturing people, which was dramatic and not entirely inaccurate.

but you?

you looked at him like he was a boy.

like he was just gary.

like he could lean too close and say something cruel, and it would still somehow be flirting because you wanted to believe there was something gentle tucked underneath it.

that made him want to test you.

at first, he kept it small.

he started appearing beside you in the hallway, silent until you noticed him and startled with a tiny breath. he liked that sound. not because it scared you badly, but because it proved he could still pull a reaction out of you. he would glance down at the books pressed to your chest, then back to your face, mouth curving like he knew something you did not.

“you always walk around looking like somebody’s about to snatch you up,” he told you once.

your fingers tightened around your books. “i do not.”

“you do.” his eyes dragged over your face, amused and sharp. “it’s pathetic.”

you looked away, cheeks warming. “that’s mean.”

“it’s honest.”

“still mean.”

“you gonna cry about it?”

you blinked at him, startled, then shook your head. “no.”

gary watched the soft embarrassment settle over you, watched you shift your weight from one foot to the other like you were trying not to smile. that annoyed him. it should have made you defensive. it should have made you glare. instead, you looked down at the floor and pressed your lips together like he had flustered you.

like he had flirted.

that was the first warning sign.

the second came two days later, outside english class. you were standing near the door with a notebook held to your chest, waiting for the hallway to thin before going in. gary stepped behind you, close enough that his shadow fell over your shoulder.

you knew it was him before he spoke. he could tell by the way your posture changed, all at once nervous and aware.

“sweet thing,” he said, low enough that only you heard.

you froze.

gary smiled to himself.

you turned your head slightly. “gary.”

“that all i get?” he leaned closer, his voice near your ear. “not even a hello? after everything we’ve been through?”

“we haven’t been through anything.”

“you wound me.”

“you’ll live.”

that made his smile twitch wider.

there it was. that little spark. not enough to burn anyone, but enough to prove you had a mouth when you remembered how to use it.

he reached around you, slow and deliberate, and tugged lightly at the corner of your notebook. “what’s this?”

“homework.”

“obviously. i mean, why are you clutching it like somebody’s gonna steal it?”

“because people here steal things.”

“smart girl.”

your breath caught.

gary noticed.

of course he noticed.

he stepped to your side, watching the warm color rise up your neck. “oh, you liked that?”

“liked what?”

“don’t play dumb. you’re bad at it.”

“i’m not playing anything.”

“no?” his gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then returned to your eyes with calculated ease. “then why are you looking at me like that?”

you looked away so quickly it nearly made him laugh.

“i’m not.”

“you are.”

“gary, class is about to start.”

“and?”

“and i need to go in.”

“then go.”

but he did not move.

you stood there for one quiet second, trapped between his body and the classroom door, not because he was touching you, not because he was blocking you completely, but because he had made the space feel smaller. he had made the air feel like something you had to push through.

then he stepped aside.

you slipped past him with your head lowered, but not before he caught the tiny, helpless smile you tried to hide.

gary stared after you, irritation crawling beneath his collar.

ridiculous.

you were ridiculous.

he was trying to make you uncomfortable. trying to make you nervous. trying to show you that if he wanted your attention, he could take it. he sharpened every word before giving it to you, made every compliment sound like an insult and every insult sound like a secret.

and you kept blushing.

worse, you started looking for him.

not openly. you were too shy for that. but your eyes would move through the cafeteria before you sat down. your steps would slow near the boys’ dorm if you saw him outside with jimmy and pete. in class, if gary leaned back in his chair and glanced toward you, you looked away too late.

he should have found it amusing.

sometimes he did.

but mostly, it got under his skin because you were not reacting correctly.

people were supposed to be easy. push here, they snapped. press there, they cried. offer them a little attention, they followed. take it away, they panicked. gary knew the rhythm of manipulation like he knew the layout of the school.

but you had a way of ruining the experiment by being sincere.

when he called you sweet thing, you heard affection.

when he told you that you were too soft, you heard concern.

when he touched two fingers beneath your chin to make you look at him, your eyes widened with nerves, yes, but also something warmer. something trusting. something that made his hand feel strange for one stupid second before he pulled it away.

“you shouldn’t let people talk to you like that,” he told you once behind the library shelves, after overhearing some girl mock the way you answered a question in class.

you looked surprised. “like what?”

“like you’re simple.”

“she didn’t mean it like that.”

gary stared at you.

you were sitting on the floor between two shelves, knees tucked slightly to the side, your skirt folded neatly over your thighs. there was a book open in your lap, though you had stopped reading the second he came around the corner. dust floated in the afternoon light from the tall windows, and the library smelled like old paper, polish, and rain-damp uniforms.

“you can’t be serious,” he said.

you shrugged a little. “she just likes being funny.”

“no, she likes making you look stupid because you let her.”

your face fell slightly.

he felt a brief, ugly satisfaction at that. there. finally. a hit.

but then you only looked down and traced the corner of the book page with your thumb. “i don’t want to start problems.”

“problems start whether you want them to or not.”

“not always.”

“yes, always.”

“you really believe that?”

gary crouched in front of you, balancing easily on the balls of his feet. his brown eyes were bright in that unsettling way they got when he was entertained and irritated at the same time. “i know that.”

you looked at him for a little too long.

“that sounds lonely,” you said softly.

gary’s expression shifted before he could stop it.

only a flicker. only a second.

then he scoffed. “don’t do that.”

“do what?”

“look at me like i’m some sad little stray you found behind the girls’ dorm.”

“i wasn’t.”

“you were.”

“i just meant...” you hesitated, then closed the book halfway. “it must be tiring, thinking everybody is trying to hurt you all the time.”

gary’s jaw tightened.

there it was again.

that softness.

that stupid, brave, gentle softness.

it did not come from ignorance. that was what he was beginning to understand, and it made him angrier than if you had simply been naive. you knew bullworth was cruel. you knew people lied. you knew gary himself was not kind. and still, somehow, you sat there in the dusty library light and looked at him like you could see every sharp edge and did not want to step away.

he hated it.

“everybody is trying to hurt everybody,” he said. “some of us are just honest about it.”

you swallowed. “are you trying to hurt me?”

the question should have pleased him.

it should have opened something.

instead, gary found himself staring at you.

your voice had not trembled. not much. your fingers were pressed against the cover of your book, your nails neat and pale, your posture small but steady. you were afraid of the answer, maybe, but you had still asked.

gary smiled slowly.

“would you stop talking to me if i said yes?”

your lips parted.

you did not answer.

his smile sharpened, but something hot and restless moved in his chest.

“exactly,” he murmured. “sweet thing.”

after that, you became something close to his girlfriend by accident.

or at least, that was what gary told himself.

it was not like he asked you properly. gary smith did not stand under trees with flowers and honest intentions. he simply started taking up space beside you until everyone else understood the arrangement. he sat next to you in the library even when there were six empty tables. he walked beside you between classes, hands in his pockets, pretending he was bored while carefully steering you away from the rougher cliques. he watched people’s faces when they looked at you, and if he caught something he disliked, he made sure they noticed him noticing.

you never asked what it meant.

maybe you were too shy.

maybe you already knew.

one afternoon, a jock bumped your shoulder hard enough to make your books slide against your chest. before you could apologize, gary stepped between you and the boy with a smile that was all teeth.

“watch where you’re going.”

the jock looked down at him. “what, she yours or something?”

gary’s head tilted.

his scar pulled slightly over his eye.

“say that again.”

the boy hesitated, because for all gary was slender and not the strongest boy at bullworth, there was something wrong in his calm. something too pleased by the possibility of a problem. jimmy fought like a bulldog. russell fought like a truck with fists. gary did not fight like either of them. he fought dirty, if he had to fight at all. more often, he arranged things so somebody else bled first.

the jock muttered something and moved on.

you stood behind gary, quiet.

when he turned, you were looking at him like he had done something kind.

“thank you,” you said.

gary’s eyes narrowed. “don’t thank me for that.”

“why not?”

“because i didn’t do it for free.”

your brows drew together. “what do you want?”

he stepped closer, just enough to make your back touch the lockers. “maybe i wanted to see if you’d look at me like that.”

your cheeks warmed.

“like what?”

“like i’m decent.”

you looked up at him, nervous and open. “you can be.”

gary laughed once under his breath. “no, i can’t.”

“you can.”

“you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“maybe you just don’t like when people say nice things about you.”

his smile disappeared.

you noticed, and immediately your face softened. “i’m sorry.”

“stop apologizing.”

“i didn’t mean to upset you.”

“you didn’t.”

“okay.”

“you’re lying.”

“i’m not.”

“you’re bad at that too.”

you looked down.

gary’s fingers moved before he fully thought about it. he caught your chin lightly, not rough, but firm enough to bring your face back up. the hallway noise seemed to thin around you both. lockers slammed somewhere nearby. somebody laughed too loud. a prefect barked at someone to tuck in their shirt.

you only looked at gary.

his thumb rested near the soft curve beneath your lower lip, and he watched your lashes flutter like the touch had gone through you.

“there,” he said quietly. “better.”

your breath was shallow. “gary...”

he liked how his name sounded when you said it like that.

too much.

so he let go.

“get to class,” he said, turning away before you could see too much on his face. “don’t stand there looking stupid.”

you did not get upset.

you touched your chin where his fingers had been and smiled to yourself like he had handed you a note folded into a heart.

gary saw it reflected faintly in the glass of a trophy case.

for the rest of the day, he was in a worse mood than usual.

jimmy noticed because jimmy noticed the obvious things, and gary’s mood was always obvious when it came with sharper words and unnecessary insults.

“what’s your problem?” jimmy asked later near the boys’ dorm, arms crossed.

gary leaned against the wall, one foot braced behind him, tie loose, sleeves rolled. “my problem is i’m surrounded by morons.”

“so, a regular day.”

pete glanced between them nervously. “maybe you should just, uh, take it easy.”

gary turned his head slowly. “thank you, petey. brilliant advice. i’ll be sure to write that down in my diary under useless things said by useless people.”

pete flinched.

jimmy frowned. “lay off him.”

“oh, calm down. he’ll survive.”

“this about that girl?”

gary’s eyes cut to jimmy.

jimmy lifted his brows. “yeah. thought so.”

“careful, hopkins.”

“what? everybody sees you following her around.”

“i don’t follow anyone.”

“sure. you just happen to be wherever she is, all the time.”

gary smiled thinly. “that almost sounded like an accusation.”

“nah. just saying.” jimmy shrugged. “she’s nice. don’t mess with her.”

gary’s smile went still.

“nice,” he repeated.

“yeah. nice. you know, that thing you ain’t?”

pete looked like he wanted the ground to open.

gary pushed off the wall. “you think she needs you to protect her from me?”

jimmy stared back, not backing down. “i think you like breaking stuff just to see what happens.”

for one second, neither of them moved.

then gary laughed, soft and unpleasant.

“that’s the difference between you and me, jimmy. you break things because you’re too stupid to know your own strength.” he leaned in slightly. “i break things because i want to see what’s inside.”

jimmy’s jaw tightened.

pete whispered, “gary...”

gary stepped back, smile bright again. “relax. i’m joking.”

no one believed him.

he left them there and went looking for you.

not because jimmy had told him not to mess with you. not because pete looked worried. not because the word nice had settled in his head like a stone in his shoe.

he went because he wanted to.

that was the part he did not like.

wanting made people weak. wanting gave other people handles. gary knew that. he had watched it all over bullworth. johnny wanted lola, and look at what that did to him. derby wanted status. earnest wanted power. algie wanted approval. pete wanted friends. jimmy wanted everyone to stop being idiots long enough for him to get through one day without punching someone.

everyone wanted something.

gary wanted control.

control was cleaner than affection. safer. smarter.

then you came along, all soft eyes and careful hands, and made him want something uglier than control.

he wanted to be the one who changed you.

he wanted to find the edge of your innocence and press down until it bent.

not because he wanted you ruined by bullworth. no, that was too simple. too generous to everyone else. he wanted to be the one who did it first. if softness was something people took from you eventually, then he wanted his fingerprints there before anyone else got close.

it made sense in his head.

it almost sounded protective if he twisted it hard enough.

you were in the library again, of course.

you liked the quiet there. liked the high shelves and dusty corners, liked the tables with carved names and old gum stuck underneath, liked the weak golden light that came through the windows in the late afternoon. you said it made bullworth feel less cruel.

gary thought that was stupid.

he also knew exactly which table you preferred.

you were sitting near the back, half-hidden by a shelf of old reference books, your knees together beneath the table, one hand bracing your cheek while the other moved a pencil slowly along a page. your bag sat on the chair beside you. there was a little crease between your brows, and your lips moved faintly as you read something to yourself.

gary stood there for longer than necessary.

watching.

you looked peaceful when no one was bothering you.

that irritated him too.

“you know,” he said, making you jump, “it’s almost impressive how easy you are to sneak up on.”

your hand flew to your chest. “gary.”

“yes, that’s my name.”

“you scared me.”

“i noticed.”

you frowned, but there was no heat in it. “that’s not funny.”

“it was a little funny.”

“to you.”

“which is what matters.”

you shook your head, looking back down, but he caught the small smile tugging at your mouth.

gary pulled out the chair across from you and sat without asking. then he leaned back, making himself comfortable, one arm draped over the back of the chair, the other hand resting near the edge of your paper.

“what are we doing?”

“we?”

“yes, we. keep up.”

“i’m studying.”

“terrible hobby.”

“you asked me to help you with english.”

“did i?”

you gave him a look.

gary smiled.

he had asked. technically. though it had been less of a request and more of him dropping into the seat beside you the day before and saying, “you’re going to help me with this before i die of boredom.” you had blinked at him, then agreed like he had asked nicely.

now, you pushed one of the books toward him.

“you said you didn’t understand the assignment.”

“i lied.”

your pencil stopped.

he said it so casually that it took you a second to react. “why?”

“because i wanted to see if you’d say yes.”

your face warmed.

gary’s eyes sharpened with satisfaction.

“and you did.”

“well...” you looked down at the page. “i thought you needed help.”

“sweet thing, i need a lot of things. help with english is not one of them.”

you pressed your lips together. “you shouldn’t lie about schoolwork.”

“that’s your complaint? not that i lied to get you alone?”

your eyes flicked up.

there. finally.

a tremor of uncertainty.

gary leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “what? don’t look at me like that now. you followed me into darker places than the library.”

“i didn’t follow you. you walked with me.”

“same difference.”

“it is not.”

“you always argue so politely. it takes the fun out of it.”

“sorry.”

“there you go again.”

you lowered your gaze. “i’m trying not to.”

“try harder.”

he expected you to shrink. maybe look hurt. maybe go quiet in that wounded way that would prove he could still touch something delicate in you.

instead, you nodded once.

“okay,” you said softly.

gary stared at you.

not because it was interesting. because it was unbearable.

you had no idea what to do with cruelty except soften around it. other people met sharpness with sharpness or fear. you met it like water meeting glass. you changed shape. you held. you made the hard thing look useless.

gary reached across the table and slid your pencil out of your fingers.

“hey,” you said, but softly.

he twirled it once, then pointed it at you. “tell me something.”

“what?”

“why are you like this?”

your brows pinched. “like what?”

“don’t make me list it. i’ll be cruel.”

“you’re always cruel.”

“and yet here you are.”

your mouth closed.

gary’s smile crept back.

“see? that’s what i mean. any other girl with sense would have told me to get lost weeks ago.”

“maybe i do have sense.”

“no, you have terrible taste.”

“that’s mean.”

“it’s honest.”

you looked at him for a quiet moment, then said, “i don’t think you’re as mean as you want everybody to think.”

gary’s fingers tightened around the pencil.

there it was.

that sentence.

that stupid, soft, impossible sentence.

he laughed once, but it came out too flat. “is that right?”

you nodded, though your hands twisted together in your lap. “you act like you don’t care about anything, but you notice everything. you always know when somebody is going to bother me before they do. you walk on the outside of the sidewalk when we leave campus. you act annoyed, but you still carry my books when they’re too heavy.”

“because watching you drop them is depressing.”

“you remembered i don’t like sitting close to the cafeteria doors.”

“everybody knows that.”

“no, they don’t.”

“maybe you’re just obvious.”

“maybe you pay attention.”

gary leaned back slowly.

the library around you felt too still. somewhere near the front, the librarian stamped papers with dull, rhythmic thuds. rain touched the windows in thin, nervous lines. footsteps passed between shelves and faded.

you looked embarrassed after saying it, like you had spoken too honestly and wanted to tuck the words back into your chest.

gary should have mocked you.

instead, he said, “you’re going to get yourself hurt.”

“maybe.”

“that wasn’t a suggestion.”

“i know.”

“then stop being stupid.”

you looked down, a weak little smile pulling at your lips. “you’re worried about me?”

“i’m irritated by you.”

“that sounds like worry when you say it.”

“you hear what you want.”

“maybe.”

gary watched you for a long second.

then he stood.

you looked up. “are you leaving?”

“come on.”

“where?”

“somewhere less depressing.”

“the library is not depressing.”

“it’s full of people pretending books make them interesting. it’s a mausoleum with homework.”

you frowned. “i still have to study.”

“you’ll live.”

“gary—”

he leaned over the table, close enough that your complaint died quietly in your throat. “bring your book, sweet thing.”

you should have said no.

you did not.

that was how he got you outside, behind the school where the noise dulled and the air smelled like wet leaves, old brick, and grass beaten flat by too many shoes. the rain had slowed into mist, leaving the courtyard slick and shining. beyond the back wall, bullworth town sat gray beneath the clouds. behind you, the school loomed like it was listening.

gary led you to the quiet place near the side of the library building, where the stone wall curved away from the main path and the trees hid most of the view from teachers and prefects. students came back there sometimes to smoke, fight, kiss, or make plans they did not want anyone overhearing.

you hovered near the wall, clutching your book.

“i thought we were going somewhere less depressing,” you said.

gary glanced around. “this is less depressing.”

“it looks like where someone would hide a body.”

“see? interesting.”

you gave him a look, then immediately looked down when he smiled.

“there she is,” he murmured.

“what?”

“nothing.”

he sat on the low stone ledge near the wall and stretched one leg out, the other bent, completely at ease. you stayed standing for a moment, uncertain, then sat beside him with careful space between you. your skirt brushed the stone. your shoulder was close enough that he could have leaned over and touched it if he wanted.

he did want.

he hated that too.

for a while, neither of you said much. the quiet settled around you, softer than the library quiet because there was wind in it. distant shouting came from somewhere near the football field. a bell rang once from inside the school, muffled and far away.

you opened your book, maybe to give your hands something to do.

gary looked at the page. “you’re actually going to study out here.”

“you brought me out here with my book.”

“that doesn’t mean use it.”

“what else am i supposed to do?”

“talk to me.”

your eyes flicked up. “about what?”

“anything.”

“you hate when i ramble.”

“i hate a lot of things. talk.”

so you did.

softly at first, unsure if he was making fun of you. you talked about the assignment, then about how english was easier when the teacher did not make everyone read aloud. you talked about how bullworth felt different in bad weather, quieter and more honest somehow. you said the school looked almost pretty when the rain made the windows glow.

gary listened without looking like he was listening.

his eyes stayed on you.

you noticed eventually. of course you did. your words grew slower, then stumbled. you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, looked at the book, looked at him, looked away again.

“why are you staring at me?”

“because you’re talking.”

“you told me to.”

“i know.”

“then why are you looking at me like that?”

gary tilted his head. “like what?”

“like...” you swallowed. “like you’re waiting for me to say something wrong.”

“maybe i am.”

your fingers tightened around the edge of your book. “that makes me nervous.”

“i know.”

“you like that?”

“a little.”

you should have moved away.

instead, you looked at him with that helpless, warmed face, and gary felt something mean and possessive twist inside him.

you were too easy to touch without touching.

he could make your pulse jump with one sentence. he could make your eyes lower with one look. he could step closer and watch you forget how to breathe. and you still trusted him. still sat there beside him after classes with your knees angled toward his and your book open uselessly in your lap.

“you really are something,” he said.

you blinked. “is that good or bad?”

“yes.”

“gary.”

“what? you want me to be nice?”

“sometimes.”

“dangerous thing to want from me.”

“i know.”

“do you?”

you looked at him then, really looked. there was no smile on your face anymore, only that careful tenderness he did not know what to do with.

“yes,” you said. “i know.”

for a second, he almost believed you.

then you looked down at your hands and spoke again, softer.

“can i tell you something embarrassing?”

gary’s interest sharpened immediately.

that was the problem with secrets. everyone wanted someone to hold them. everyone wanted the relief of being known without thinking about what could be done with the knowledge afterward.

he turned slightly toward you. “obviously.”

you made a face. “you could say yes like a normal person.”

“i could. but i won’t.”

you breathed a tiny laugh, nervous and sweet.

gary’s eyes dropped to your mouth without permission.

“it’s not bad,” you said quickly. “just... embarrassing.”

“i’ll decide.”

“that is not comforting.”

“it wasn’t meant to be.”

you looked out toward the wet grass. your shoulder nearly touched his now. he did not remember you moving closer.

“i’ve never had my first kiss.”

the world did not stop.

not really.

the distant shouting continued. the wind moved through the trees. somewhere behind the school, someone laughed and someone else told them to shut up. the rain ticked lightly from the edge of the roof.

but gary went still.

only for a second.

then he smiled.

slowly.

the kind of smile that made most people step back.

you did not see it at first because you were staring down at your hands, twisting your fingers together.

“i know that sounds childish,” you rushed on, voice quiet with embarrassment. “i just never... i don’t know. it never happened. and i didn’t want it to be with somebody who didn’t care, so i guess i kept waiting.”

gary said nothing.

his mind had already moved ahead of you.

your first kiss.

untouched. unclaimed. not because no one had wanted to, probably, but because you had guarded it with the same soft seriousness you gave everything else. you had treated it like it mattered. like it was some little glass thing cupped in both hands.

and now you had placed it between you and gary.

you had no idea what you had done.

“you kept waiting,” he repeated.

you nodded, still not looking at him. “yeah.”

“for what? true love?”

your face warmed. “don’t say it like that.”

“like what?”

“like i’m stupid.”

“i didn’t say stupid.”

“you meant it.”

“maybe.”

you gave him a hurt look, and there it was again. that small, soft bruise of emotion.

gary should have pressed harder.

he did.

“so what, you think a kiss changes you?”

your shoulders lifted slightly. “maybe.”

he leaned closer. “that’s adorable.”

“gary.”

“no, really.” his voice was light, cruel at the edges. “you think one kiss and suddenly some part of you is gone? less pure? less safe? how tragic.”

you looked away. “you’re being mean.”

“you brought me an interesting theory. i’m exploring it.”

“you’re making fun of me.”

“a little.”

your mouth tightened.

good, he thought.

good.

finally, something like resistance.

but then your expression softened into embarrassment instead of anger, and you looked down again.

“i just always thought it mattered,” you said. “that’s all.”

gary watched your lashes lower, the nervous movement of your hands, the way your voice thinned around the confession. you looked almost ashamed of wanting something gentle. ashamed of having protected a small part of yourself from bullworth, from boys with loud mouths, from cruel girls, from the whole ugly churn of growing up in a place where nothing stayed clean for long.

he could ruin that.

the thought came clearly.

not like a temptation.

like an answer.

“and if it’s with the wrong person?” he asked.

you swallowed. “then it would feel wrong.”

“that’s not what you said.”

your brows pulled together. “what?”

“you said some part of you would be different. less untouched. less safe.” his smile returned, but his eyes were sharper now. “less yourself.”

you looked at him, startled that he had heard the exact shape of what you meant even though you had barely said it.

gary always heard.

“i didn’t mean—”

“yes, you did.”

you went quiet.

he shifted closer on the stone ledge. the space between you narrowed until your knees almost touched. you looked down at that small distance like it had become dangerous.

“so,” he said softly, “who is the wrong person?”

“i don’t know.”

“liar.”

“i’m not lying.”

“you’re always lying when you get that polite.”

you let out a shaky breath. “gary, stop.”

he stilled.

not because you had said it loudly. not because it sounded angry. it was soft, almost pleading, but the word stop landed between you with enough weight that even gary, who liked pushing every door until the hinges screamed, paused.

for a moment, something flickered across his face.

then he leaned back half an inch.

“fine.”

you blinked, surprised.

he looked away, jaw tight, and hated himself for obeying so quickly.

you watched him carefully. “i’m not trying to upset you.”

“you’re not important enough to upset me.”

that was a lie.

you heard it, maybe. or maybe you simply chose not to treat it like one.

“i just...” you looked at your lap. “i do not like when you make me feel silly for caring about things.”

gary’s mouth opened.

nothing came out.

it was the gentlest accusation anyone had ever made against him, and somehow, that made it worse.

he wanted you angry. he wanted a fight. he wanted you to shove the book into your bag and stand up and say he was cruel, because then he could smile and prove himself right about the world. he knew how to deal with anger. he knew how to deal with fear.

he did not know what to do with hurt honesty.

so he did what he always did.

he sharpened himself.

“you should feel silly,” he said. “caring about things is how people get leverage on you.”

you looked at him. “is that why you pretend not to care?”

his eyes narrowed.

“careful.”

“i’m not scared of you.”

that startled a laugh out of him.

not because it was true.

because it almost was.

“you should be.”

“maybe,” you said. “but i’m not.”

the wind moved between you. your hair shifted near your cheek. gary’s gaze caught there, then slid to your mouth again.

you noticed this time.

your breathing changed.

gary noticed that too.

“so,” he murmured. “am i?”

“are you what?”

“the wrong person.”

your lips parted slightly.

there it was.

the question had been waiting beneath everything. beneath the teasing, beneath the cruelty, beneath the whole strange shape of whatever you two were. gary asked it like he already knew the answer, but the truth was, he wanted to hear you say it. he wanted you to give him the knife and trust him not to cut.

your eyes flicked over his face — the scar, the sharp mouth, the too-watchful eyes, the smug tilt of his head that never quite hid how tense he was underneath.

“i don’t know,” you whispered.

gary’s smile turned mean because it was easier than letting his face go blank.

“that’s not very flattering.”

“i didn’t mean it like that.”

“how did you mean it?”

you hesitated.

then, softly, painfully, you said, “i don’t think you are. but sometimes i think you want to be.”

and that—

that hit.

gary stared at you.

for once, he had no immediate answer. no quick insult. no clever way to twist it. the words slid through him too cleanly, slipping past the armor because you had not thrown them. you had only placed them gently in his hands.

sometimes i think you want to be.

he did.

of course he did.

he wanted to be the wrong person because wrong people did not have to be trusted. wrong people did not have to be careful with what they were given. wrong people did not have to worry about failing at tenderness because no one expected tenderness from them in the first place.

if he was wrong, then hurting you would be proof.

if he was wrong, then wanting you would not scare him.

gary moved closer.

you froze, but you did not move away.

his shoulder nearly touched yours. his hand came up, slow enough that you could have leaned back if you wanted to, and his fingers found your chin the way they had before. this time, the touch was lighter. more dangerous because of it.

your eyes lifted to his.

“gary,” you whispered.

“you say my name a lot when you’re nervous.”

“you make me nervous.”

“i know.”

“on purpose.”

“usually.”

“why?”

his thumb brushed once along the edge of your chin.

the honest answer would have been ugly.

because you’re soft and i want to see if i can make you hard.

because you trust me and i want to know what it feels like to be trusted before i ruin it.

because everyone looks at me like i’m already a monster, and you don’t, and it makes me want to prove you wrong before you prove me wrong first.

instead, he said, “because you make it easy.”

your eyes lowered, not fully, just enough that your lashes cast shadows.

he could feel how fast you were breathing.

“do you want me to stop now?” he asked.

the question came out quieter than he meant.

your gaze snapped back to his.

for a second, you looked almost confused. as if you had expected him to keep pushing without asking. as if the question itself had changed the shape of the moment.

your voice was barely there.

“no.”

gary’s fingers tightened by a fraction.

“no?”

you shook your head.

the last bit of distance between you felt thin as paper.

gary looked at your mouth again. there was no pretending now. no clever cover. no insult sharp enough to hide the obvious. you saw him looking, and instead of pulling away, you went very still, lips parted with a nervous little breath.

he kissed you.

not sweetly.

not at first.

it was impulsive, selfish, and too sharp around the edges, like he was trying to prove something against your mouth. his hand held your chin, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to keep you there for the single stunned second before you understood what was happening.

your book slipped from your lap and hit the wet grass with a soft, forgotten thump.

gary felt it.

the shock in you.

the way your breath caught against his mouth. the way your fingers curled uselessly against the stone beside your thigh. the way your whole body seemed to pause, not in fear, but in disbelief.

he had done it.

he had taken the small glass thing you had protected and closed his fist around it.

for half a heartbeat, satisfaction flashed bright and mean through him.

then he pulled back.

he expected you to look hurt.

he expected the color to drain from your face. expected your hand to come up fast and angry. expected tears maybe, or betrayal, or that trembling look people got when they finally realized gary smith was exactly what everyone said he was.

he was prepared for all of it.

he had speeches ready. insults. defenses. a dozen ways to turn the blame back on you if he needed to.

but you did not slap him.

you did not cry.

you did not look ruined.

you sat there with wide eyes and parted lips, breathless in the gray afternoon, your fingers slowly rising to touch your own mouth.

gary stared.

your fingertips pressed lightly where he had kissed you, like you were checking if the feeling was still there.

your cheeks were warm. your eyes were soft with shock. not disgust. not anger.

wonder.

that made something inside him tilt.

“well?” he said, too sharp because his voice needed somewhere to go. “was it tragic?”

you looked at him.

for the first time all day, you did not answer right away.

gary’s smile tried to return, but it felt wrong on his face.

“come on,” he said. “don’t go speechless on me now. you had plenty to say a minute ago.”

your lips moved.

nothing came out.

he should have been pleased.

instead, his chest felt tight.

“sweet thing,” he mocked softly, reaching for the easiest cruelty. “did i break you?”

you blinked.

then, so quietly he almost did not hear it, you whispered, “can you do it again?”

gary froze.

all of him.

his hand was still near your chin. his knee still angled toward yours. the mist still gathered in his hair and on the shoulders of his sweater vest. but his mind, always moving, always calculating, went completely blank for one rare and terrible second.

“what?”

your face burned darker, and you looked down immediately. “never mind.”

“no.” his voice cut through the air. “say it again.”

you swallowed. “i said never mind.”

“that’s not what i meant.”

“gary—”

“say it.”

you looked up at him then, shy enough to tremble, brave enough to stay.

“can you kiss me again?”

gary had imagined so many possible outcomes.

not that.

not you asking.

not you looking at him like he had handed you something precious instead of taking it without the gentleness it deserved. not you turning his selfishness into a gift simply because your heart was stubborn enough to make meaning out of anything.

it irritated him so badly he almost laughed.

instead, he stared at you.

“you liked it.”

your face went hot. “i didn’t say that.”

“you didn’t have to.”

“don’t tease me.”

“why not?” his smile returned slowly, defensive and smug. “you make it too easy.”

you looked embarrassed, but you did not shrink the way you usually did. your fingers still hovered near your lips, and your eyes kept dropping to his mouth despite your best efforts.

gary saw.

of course he saw.

“greedy,” he murmured.

your eyes widened. “i only asked for one more.”

“that’s how it starts.”

“gary.”

“what? you wanted your precious first kiss to matter.” he leaned in again, watching your breath catch. “now you want a second before the first one’s even settled.”

“you’re being mean again.”

“and you’re still sitting here.”

you were.

that was the problem.

you were still sitting there, close enough to touch, looking at him like he had not done something cruel enough to deserve distance. you looked nervous, yes. overwhelmed. embarrassed. but not afraid. not in the way he needed you to be.

gary’s face tightened.

“why aren’t you mad?”

the question left him before he could make it sound like a joke.

you blinked. “what?”

“don’t make me repeat myself.”

your hands lowered slowly to your lap. “why would i be mad?”

gary stared at you like you had said something impossible.

“because i kissed you.”

“i know.”

“after everything you just said.”

“i know.”

“and you’re not mad?”

you looked at him, confused and shy and earnest in the worst possible way. “you’re my boyfriend.”

the word landed harder than he expected.

boyfriend.

people had said it before. teased it. implied it. jimmy had muttered it like an accusation. pete had said it once and immediately apologized when gary looked at him. but you had not said it like a joke or a claim. you said it like a simple fact.

like it was safe.

like he was yours in some soft, obvious way.

gary’s mouth curled, but the expression did not reach his eyes. “is that what i am?”

your confidence wavered. “i thought...”

he watched the uncertainty cross your face and felt a quick, ugly instinct to crush it before it could become something he had to answer for.

“you thought what?”

you looked down. “i thought we were together.”

“because i walk you to class?”

“and sit with me.”

“generous of me.”

“and wait outside the girls’ dorm if i’m late.”

“maybe i’m bored.”

“and scare people away when they bother me.”

“maybe i like scaring people.”

“and you notice things about me.”

gary’s jaw flexed.

you looked back up at him.

your voice softened.

“and because you kissed me.”

he had.

he could not take that part back.

not that he wanted to.

that was worse too.

gary laughed under his breath, but it sounded thin. “you’re unbelievable.”

“i’m sorry.”

“stop apologizing.”

“okay.”

“and stop looking at me like that.”

“like what?”

“like i did something good.”

you hesitated.

then you said, “it felt good.”

gary looked away sharply.

that should have pleased him too. it did, somewhere low and vain and possessive. but it also split something open, because you were not supposed to say it like that. not softly. not honestly. not as if trusting him with the truth was natural.

he had kissed you to mark you.

you had taken the mark and called it affection.

he could not decide whether he wanted to laugh at you or pull you closer.

so he did neither for one long moment.

the rain misted around you both. your book lay open in the grass, its pages beginning to curl from the damp. gary noticed and reached down, snatching it up before the mud could ruin it completely.

you blinked in surprise when he handed it back.

“thank you,” you said automatically.

“don’t.”

your fingers brushed his when you took it.

another small reaction moved through you.

gary saw that too.

his gaze dropped to your hands. “you really don’t feel ruined?”

you looked at him with a strange expression then.

not offended.

not even confused.

just sad for him, maybe, in that unbearable way you had.

“no.”

“you should.”

“why?”

“because that’s what you were worried about.”

“i was worried about it being wrong.”

“and it wasn’t?”

you shook your head.

his voice lowered. “why?”

you hugged the book to your chest, not like a shield this time. more like you needed something to hold.

“because it was you.”

gary went still again.

you seemed to realize how much you had said, because your face softened into shyness and you looked away toward the wet grass. “i mean... i know you like acting like you don’t care, and i know you’re not always nice. you’re not. sometimes you say things that hurt my feelings on purpose.”

gary said nothing.

“but when i think about my first kiss...” your voice got quieter. “i think i wanted it to be with someone who made me feel something. not just someone polite. not just someone safe because they know how to say the right things.”

you glanced at him.

“you make me nervous, but you make me feel seen too.”

gary’s throat worked silently.

seen.

he almost hated that word more than sweet.

people saw what he wanted them to see. that was the point. gary smith was a performance sharpened into a weapon. the smile, the arrogance, the lazy cruelty, the way he called people friend like he was either inviting them closer or leading them off a cliff. he chose what people got. he decided which version of him stood in front of them.

but you were looking at him like you had seen the cracks in the mask and had not been clever enough to pretend you missed them.

or maybe you were clever enough.

maybe this was your power.

not innocence.

not ignorance.

choice.

you chose to see him gently.

gary hated it because he did not know how to defend himself from it.

“you have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.

your smile was small. “maybe.”

“you say that when you think i’m wrong.”

“maybe,” you repeated.

he scoffed. “you think you’re cute.”

“no.”

“you are.”

the words came out before he could make them cruel.

you froze.

gary froze too, internally.

then he recovered, leaning closer with a smirk. “unfortunately. it’s very irritating.”

your face went warm again, but this time your smile showed fully. shy, pleased, almost disbelieving.

gary wanted to ruin it.

gary wanted to protect it.

gary wanted to do both so badly it made him angry.

“there,” he said, reaching for the old script. “happy now? you got your compliment. don’t expect another one.”

“okay.”

“and stop smiling.”

“i’m trying.”

“try harder.”

“i can’t.”

his gaze dropped to your mouth again.

your smile faded slowly, not into fear, but anticipation.

gary saw the exact second you remembered you had asked him to kiss you again.

he should not have.

not because he cared about rules. not because he was afraid of consequences. but because the second kiss would not be like the first, and he knew it. the first one had been a theft. a test. a cruel little experiment wrapped in impulse.

the second would be something you asked for.

that made it dangerous in a completely different way.

you were giving him permission to be part of the memory.

you were making him responsible for it.

gary smith did not want responsibility. he wanted influence. control. leverage.

but your eyes were on his mouth, and your hands were tight around your damp book, and the softness in your face had not broken.

“ask properly,” he said.

your eyes lifted. “what?”

“you heard me.”

“gary...”

“you wanted another kiss. ask properly.”

you looked away, embarrassed. “that’s not fair.”

“most things aren’t.”

“you just want to tease me.”

“obviously.”

“you’re awful.”

“and yet?”

you breathed out, shaky and flustered.

gary waited, patient in the way predators were patient.

but beneath the smugness, something else waited too. something tense. something almost afraid.

because if you asked, he would have to know he was not taking.

he was being wanted.

your voice came small.

“will you kiss me again?”

gary’s expression changed.

barely.

but you were close enough to see it.

the smugness did not vanish, not fully. it never did. but something behind it softened with a violent kind of reluctance, like a locked door giving way an inch after years of being shoved.

“look at you,” he murmured, because he needed to cover it. “all shy over something you asked for.”

“you told me to ask.”

“and you listened.”

“you like when i listen.”

“i like when everyone listens.”

“no,” you said softly. “you like when i do.”

gary’s eyes sharpened.

you looked like you wanted to take it back, but you did not.

good, he thought.

bad, he thought.

then he kissed you again.

this time, he tried to make it cruel out of habit.

it did not work.

not fully.

his mouth still pressed to yours with that same selfish confidence, but the edge was dulled by the way you leaned into him after the first startled second. your kiss was inexperienced, uncertain, too soft, almost clumsy in its innocence. you did not know where to put your hands at first. one hovered near his sleeve, then touched lightly against the front of his sweater vest.

gary felt the touch like a hook beneath his ribs.

he angled his head slightly, guiding without meaning to be gentle, and your breath hitched against his mouth. you followed him carefully. trustingly. like he could show you how without making you feel stupid for not already knowing.

the thought made his hand slide from your chin to the side of your face.

your skin was warm beneath his palm.

for a few seconds, bullworth disappeared.

not completely. nothing ever disappeared there. the school still loomed. the wet grass still clung to your shoes. the distant noise of students still scraped against the air. but the sharpness faded to the edges, and in the center of it, there was only your mouth under his, your nervous fingers curling into his vest, and the terrible realization that he liked this more because you wanted it.

when he pulled back, he did not go far.

your eyes opened slowly.

gary looked at you.

you looked ruined only in the sense that you were breathless, flustered, and very obviously no longer thinking about english homework.

not broken.

not less yourself.

if anything, you looked more like yourself than ever. soft and shy and bright with something you were too honest to hide.

gary’s thumb moved once against your cheek before he remembered himself and dropped his hand.

“there,” he said, voice low. “ruined.”

you blinked at him.

then your brows drew together, not hurt, just thoughtful.

“i don’t feel ruined.”

gary scoffed, but it sounded weak even to him. “give it time.”

you looked down, then back up. there was a trembling little smile on your lips now.

“i feel loved.”

that shut him up completely.

for one rare, impossible moment, gary smith had nothing to say.

the word moved through him wrong.

loved.

you said it like it was simple. like it did not expose him. like it did not drag something starving and furious into the light. like he had not spent the whole afternoon trying to prove that tenderness was a weakness and you had not just placed it gently in his lap like a gift.

his face went still.

too still.

you noticed.

“gary?”

he stood abruptly.

you startled, clutching your book.

“we should go,” he said.

your expression fell a little. “did i say something wrong?”

yes.

no.

maybe.

gary looked down at you, at your shy face, your damp book, your soft mouth that still looked touched by him. his mouth curved into a smirk because that was easier than anything else.

“you always say something wrong.”

you looked down.

he hated the immediate regret that hit him.

so he made it worse.

“come on, sweet thing. unless you want to sit out here sighing about romance until a prefect drags us both in.”

you stood slowly, brushing at the back of your skirt. “i wasn’t sighing.”

“you were thinking about it.”

“you don’t know that.”

“i know everything.”

that made your lips twitch.

good.

he could work with that. smiles were easier than hurt.

you picked up your bag and held the book close to your chest. gary stepped beside you as you both started back toward the main path. the wet grass darkened the edges of your shoes. your shoulder bumped his once by accident.

you apologized immediately.

“sorry.”

“what did i say?”

you pressed your lips together, trying not to smile. “stop apologizing.”

“and?”

“try harder.”

“see? you can learn.”

you glanced at him.

the walk back was quiet for a little while, but not empty. something had changed and both of you knew it. the air between you felt different now, heavier and warmer at the same time. every few steps, your fingers brushed his sleeve. every time it happened, you drew your hand back like it was an accident.

gary let it happen three times.

on the fourth, he caught your wrist.

you stopped.

his fingers circled gently, thumb resting over your pulse. he could feel it beating fast.

“relax,” he said.

“i am relaxed.”

“terrible liar.”

you looked at his hand around your wrist, then up at him. “are you mad at me?”

gary’s expression sharpened. “why would i be mad at you?”

“because you got quiet.”

“i’m always thinking.”

“about what?”

“things beyond your comprehension.”

you gave him a tired little look, and he almost smiled.

almost.

then you said, “you can just tell me if i made it weird.”

gary stared at you.

the softness was back, but there was something else beneath it now. fear, maybe. not of him exactly. fear that you had wanted too much. fear that asking for affection had turned it into something embarrassing. fear that the moment meant more to you than it did to him.

he recognized that fear.

not because he had felt it.

because he had used it in other people.

it looked ugly on you.

“you didn’t make it weird,” he said finally.

your eyes searched his face. “promise?”

gary looked away. “don’t push your luck.”

but he did not let go of your wrist.

you noticed.

your mouth softened.

“okay,” you whispered.

he should have dropped your hand then.

instead, his grip slid down until his fingers found yours.

you went completely still.

gary kept his gaze forward, as if this were nothing. as if holding your hand near the back path of bullworth academy was part of some larger strategy. as if his fingers were not tightening whenever you almost loosened yours.

“don’t make a thing out of it,” he muttered.

your voice was small and full of warmth. “i won’t.”

“you are. i can hear it.”

“hear what?”

“you smiling.”

you laughed under your breath.

it was soft.

too soft.

gary’s hand tightened around yours.

by the time you reached the side entrance, the hallways were nearly empty. the last class period had ended, and most students were either outside, in the dorms, or causing trouble somewhere they would later deny. the school smelled like damp coats and floor polish. your footsteps echoed lightly beside his.

near the stairs, you slowed.

gary glanced at you. “what now?”

“i should go back to my dorm.”

“i know.”

“okay.”

neither of you moved.

you looked at your joined hands.

gary let go like he had been burned.

you tried to hide the disappointment on your face. badly.

he saw it.

of course he saw it.

“don’t look like that.”

“like what?”

“like i kicked a puppy.”

“i’m not.”

“you are.”

“i just...” you shifted your book in your arms. “i had a nice time.”

gary stared at you.

“you had a nice time being mocked in the rain?”

“not that part.”

“which part, then?”

your face heated so fast he almost laughed.

“never mind.”

“no, say it.”

“gary.”

“say it.”

you looked around the empty hall as if someone might save you. no one did.

then you looked at him again.

“the kissing part,” you whispered.

gary’s smirk returned, more familiar now. “the kissing part.”

“don’t repeat it like that.”

“like what?”

“like you’re about to be awful.”

“i am awful.”

you shook your head, but there was that smile again. the one that said you heard something fond beneath the cruelty even when gary had not meant to place it there.

“i know,” you said.

he stepped closer, just enough that your back nearly touched the wall beside the stairwell. your eyes widened, but you did not move away. his hand lifted, not to your chin this time, but to the strap of your bag, where it had twisted on your shoulder. he fixed it with a quick tug.

then, because he could not leave tenderness alone without poisoning it, he said, “you looked ridiculous out there, by the way.”

your smile faded. “oh.”

“all wide-eyed. like no one’s ever touched you before.”

“no one has.”

the words came out so softly that his smirk faltered.

you were not saying it to make him feel guilty. not to shame him. it was only the truth.

no one had touched you like that before.

no one had held your chin and taken your breath and made you ask for more.

him.

it was him.

some part of you belonged to him now, not because he had managed to ruin it, but because you had let the memory settle around his name.

that should have thrilled him.

it did.

it also terrified him in a way he would have rather died than admit.

gary leaned in, close enough that his voice could drop to a whisper.

“then remember who did.”

your breath caught.

there. there was the darkness again. possessive. mean. easier.

but you did not look scared.

you looked shy.

and happy.

“i will,” you whispered.

gary stared at you for one long second.

then he stepped back.

“go.”

“okay.”

you turned toward the stairs, then hesitated.

he watched you over his shoulder.

you looked like you wanted to say something else. something soft. something dangerous. he could practically see it forming behind your eyes.

do not, he thought.

please do, something worse answered.

you only smiled.

“bye, gary.”

he tilted his head. “bye, sweet thing.”

you left with your book held to your chest and your fingers touching your lips once when you thought he was not looking.

gary stood in the hallway until you disappeared around the corner.

then his face changed.

the smirk faded first. then the lazy amusement. then the careful mask of boredom.

what was left underneath was not guilt, not exactly.

it was worse.

it was confusion.

gary had wanted to take something.

instead, you had given it meaning.

he had wanted to prove that softness could be broken.

instead, you had turned his cruelty into affection and placed it back in his hands like you trusted him not to drop it.

he should have laughed.

he should have felt victorious.

he should have walked away thinking, there, one less innocent thing in the world.

but as he stood alone in the dim hallway, with rain tapping faintly against the windows and your warmth still caught between his fingers, gary smith realized something with a cold, unpleasant twist in his stomach.

he had not ruined you.

not even close.

you were still sweet.

still soft.

still looking at him like he could be loved.

and somehow, without even trying, you had made that feel like the most dangerous thing at bullworth academy.

gary looked toward the stairs where you had vanished.

his mouth curved faintly, but there was no humor in it.

“stupid girl,” he murmured.

but it did not sound like an insult.

not anymore.

and that was the problem.