The next morning, I was doing my best impression of someone who hadn’t had a complete existential crisis in the last 48 hours.

Unlock locker. Retrieve books. Pretend I still had a future.

Simple.

At least, it was simple until reality decided to slap me across the face.

Because, of course, there he was — Liam — leaning against the lockers next to mine like he was the bad trailer for a rebooted rom-com absolutely nobody had asked for. He had that same lazy, casual posture guys get right before they ruin your entire week. His hands were shoved in his jacket pockets, his backpack slung low like he was too cool for gravity itself.

“Hey,” he said, smirking like he’d been rehearsing his opening line all morning. “You look… not terrible.”

I closed my eyes for half a second, summoning every ounce of patience left in my body, then opened them again.

“Wow. Poetry,” I said flatly, grabbing my history textbook and shoving it into my bag with unnecessary force.

He chuckled, the sound sliding down my spine like nails on a chalkboard. Like I was adorable instead of approximately two seconds from going full supervillain.

“You’ve been kind of intense lately,” he said, still in that tone that implied this was all light-hearted banter. “Revenge plot. Secret boyfriend. Public takedown. Impressive stuff.”

I turned to him fully, leveling him with a stare so cold it could’ve frozen the air between us.

“You cheated on me,” I said. No fluff. No polite conversation starter. Just the truth.

His smirk faltered for a half-beat, long enough for me to catch it, before he plastered it back on like it was professionally glued to his face.

“I know,” he said, as breezy as if we were talking about forgetting to return a library book. “But hey, maybe we’re both not the people we pretended to be, huh?”

My locker door slammed shut with a metallic bang that made the freshman at the next row flinch so hard he dropped his pencil case.

I didn’t care.

I crossed my arms, fixing Liam with a look that dared him to keep talking. “What do you want, Liam?”

His smile shifted, softer now. Slower. The kind of smile people use when they’re about to suggest something monumentally stupid.

“I want to take you to prom.”

I blinked. Once. Twice.

“You’re joking,” I said, because there was literally no other rational explanation for the words that had just left his mouth.

“I’m serious.” He tucked his hands deeper into his pockets, leaning in like he was delivering the final line of some Hallmark redemption arc. “Let’s end the year the way we started it. Just you and me. No drama.”

I stared at him like he’d grown a second, even dumber head.

“There’s only drama,” I said finally, voice flat enough to level a building. “You are drama.”

He laughed, sharper this time, like he liked the idea of me being angry because it meant I still cared.

“You don’t have to play the ice queen, Zoe,” he said, flashing that same easy grin that used to work on me, before I realized smiles didn’t fix broken trust. “You cared. You still do.”

I bent down to grab my math binder, mostly because I needed something heavy in my hands before I made an actual scene.

“You’re confusing revenge with regret,” I said. “Again.”

He opened his mouth, probably about to say something even more spectacularly stupid — but he didn’t get the chance.

Because a voice cut through the hallway like a dagger.

“Are you freaking kidding me?”

My heart leapt into my throat before I even turned around.

Jaxon.

Because why not, right? Why not throw gasoline onto the trash fire that was currently my personal life?

He was already striding toward us, hoodie half-zipped, jaw clenched so tight I thought I heard it crack. His eyes locked onto Liam like he was mentally drawing a bullseye on his forehead.

Liam stepped back instinctively, hands lifting in a half-surrender like he knew better than to throw the first punch.

“Wow,” Liam said, smirking, “that was fast. You two have, like, a psychic connection?”

“Back off,” Jaxon growled, voice low and dangerous.

It wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t even a threat.

It was a promise.

I moved fast, throwing myself between them, slamming a hand against Jaxon’s chest with enough force to make him stumble half a step. He was warm under my palm, heartbeat furious and wild beneath the fabric.

“Okay. No. Not happening,” I hissed through clenched teeth.

But it was already too late.

The hallway had exploded into a full-blown spectacle.

Heads turned. Phones appeared. I could practically see the Snapchats being composed in real time.

Liam smirked wider, like he thought he was winning something, like he thought I was still the prize.

Jaxon didn’t flinch. His whole body was coiled like a spring, like it was physically painful not to launch across the two feet of space separating them.

I knew exactly how this was going to end.

Badly.

And probably on video.