“Leave. Her. Alone,” Jaxon growled, every word a low, vibrating snarl that should have been terrifying — and somehow, was worse because it wasn’t.

I slapped my hand onto his arm, desperate, already feeling the situation slip out of my control.

“Please don’t…” I started, voice cracking, but it was too late.

Jaxon shoved Liam. Hard enough to rattle lockers down the hall.

The sound was so loud it sucked all the air out of the hallway. Heads snapped toward us like we were a live grenade.

Liam stumbled back against the lockers with a dull clang, knocking a few of the “Prom Court” flyers to the ground. For half a second, he just stood there, stunned, blinking like he hadn’t fully processed what just happened.

Then he straightened.

And swung.

I saw it coming, but I couldn’t move fast enough.

Liam’s fist connected with Jaxon’s jaw with a sickening crack that made someone nearby gasp audibly. I flinched, my stomach dropping so fast I felt dizzy.

The hallway exploded into chaos.

People screamed. Lockers slammed shut. Phones snapped up like this was a sold-out concert instead of the complete implosion of my life. Someone dropped a drink that splattered across the floor, slicking the tile and making it even harder to move.

“Are you FIVE?!” I shrieked, shoving at Jaxon’s arm, trying to wedge myself between them, but they were already gone, lost to whatever primal, brainless rage boys tap into the second their egos take over.

Jaxon shoved Liam again, harder, sending him staggering into another locker bank. Liam recovered fast, swinging wildly, missing by inches. Someone cheered, actually cheered, and my stomach turned.

Out of nowhere, Mr. Ellis, our tiny, overly enthusiastic debate coach, hurled himself into the middle of it like he thought he was auditioning for WWE.

It went about as well as you’d expect.

“Enough!” he shouted, trying to pry them apart with arms that probably hadn’t lifted more than a gavel since the 90s.

He needed backup.

Two more teachers came sprinting down the hall, Mr. Reynolds from gym, already blowing a whistle like that would help, and Ms. Patel from English, waving her arms like she was trying to land a plane.

It took all three of them to finally drag Jaxon and Liam apart.

They were both panting, red-faced, shirts rumpled, fists still clenched like they hadn’t realized it was over yet.

I stood there, frozen, binder slipping from my fingers onto the floor with a dull smack.

A hand landed on my shoulder, firm, unyielding.

“Office,” someone barked behind me.

I didn’t argue.

Mascara was already streaking down my cheeks, but I didn’t even bother wiping it. What was the point?

The walk to the office felt endless.

Everyone stared. Everyone whispered. Everyone had their phones out, documenting my walk of shame like it was the season finale of a show they couldn’t wait to cancel.

By the time I slumped into the cold plastic chair outside Vice Principal Harper’s office, my heart was a hollow drumbeat in my chest.

Ten minutes later, she swept in, heels clicking, folder in hand, lips pressed into a line so thin they barely existed.

She didn’t waste time.

“Both students involved are suspended for three days,” she said, flipping through paperwork like it was a menu. “Effective immediately.”

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t argue. I just kept staring at the laminate floor like maybe if I wished hard enough, it would open up and swallow me whole.

“And,” Harper added, voice sharp enough to cut glass, “if either student attempts to attend prom, they’ll be escorted off the premises.”

I blinked once. Slowly.

Prom.

The thing we’d spent months planning. The thing my friends had obsessed over. The thing that was supposed to be my grand finale, my perfect exit before college.

Gone.

Friends: furious.
Boyfriend: banned.
Heart: shattered in slow motion.

I didn’t even try to speak. What was there to say?

The walls of the office felt like they were closing in, the weight of it all pressing down harder than the stupid fluorescent lighting or the smell of burnt coffee from Harper’s desk.

I’d broken everything.