a glimpse of the unfamiliar

Dylan dressed in silence. The polished wood floor was covered in lengthy shadows as the early light seeped through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

His movements were slow, deliberate—pulling on a T-shirt and jeans with effortless ease. To Fatima, every action felt calculated, indifferent, as if the day ahead did not matter to him.

Behind him, She sat curled up on the couch, knees drawn to her chest, staring out through the glass panel.

She hadn't spoken since breakfast.

Not that he expected her to.

Dylan grabbed his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and headed for the door. He didn't look at her.

She followed without a word.

By the time they reached the garage, she was nothing more than a passenger.

The drive was silent.

When he pulled up to Ahmed's place, he didn't wait for her to speak. She hesitated for a moment, but he didn't acknowledge it.

As soon as she stepped out, he was already gone.

Fatima wanted to say a lot—to ask, to understand, to make sense of it all—but he never gave her the chance.

She stood there, caught in a haze of confusion. The man who had owned her in the night was now the one offering quiet generosity in the daylight.

She couldn't grasp which was real—or if both were.

Before she could make sense of him, he was already gone.

The morning streets were busy, but Dylan barely noticed.

His hands rested loosely on the steering wheel, his thoughts drifting. The night's pleasure had faded, but its effect remained—grounding him, steadying him. He felt more in control, more centered, as if the chaos within had momentarily settled.

As he approached a familiar intersection, his gaze flickered toward the bus stop.

James stood alone, adjusting the strap of his bag.

Dylan wasn't sure what made him do it—a whim, a moment of uncharacteristic generosity, or perhaps just a desire for distraction.

Either way, he slowed the car and pulled up beside him.

James blinked, visibly caught off guard.

Dylan leaned slightly out of the window. "Need a lift?"

For a moment, James didn't respond. It wasn't every day Dylan Mansfield offered someone a ride.

Then, his lips curled into a grin.

"I'd love to."

As soon as James climbed in, Dylan sped off, the Ferrari tearing down the road with effortless precision.

Arriving at Clayton High in a Ferrari had the expected effect.

Eyes followed them as they drove through the school gates. Conversations paused. A low murmur spread through the crowd like wildfire.

James reached for the door handle, ready to step out, but paused when he noticed Dylan shift slightly in his seat.

Confused, he glanced at him. "Shouldn't we head inside?"

Dylan took a moment before responding, his gaze distant. "Not yet." He reached into his pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and holding it out to James. "Smoke?"

James hesitated for a second before shrugging. "Sure, why not?" He took one, watching as Dylan lit his own, exhaling slowly as he leaned back against the seat.

"You're in a particularly good mood today," he remarked, watching Dylan's uncharacteristically relaxed expression.

Dylan smirked slightly, leaning back against the seat. "What good is a gloomy face?"

James chuckled, but something in his gaze remained curious, as if he was trying to figure Dylan out.

Dylan ignored him.

Instead, his gaze drifted upward—toward the balcony of Clayton High.

And there she was.

She sat alone, absorbed in her own world.

But unlike yesterday—she wasn't looking at him.

Dylan exhaled slowly, the cigarette burning between his fingers forgotten for a moment.

Yesterday, she had noticed him. He had felt it. That brief moment of acknowledgment, of connection—no matter how fleeting.

But today, she was indifferent.

And that felt… strange.

James followed his line of sight and smirked.

"That's Katherine Bryan. I saw her in Fine Arts yesterday. She's like you—brooding and silent all the time. You two would be the perfect match."

Dylan took a slow drag of his cigarette, pretending not to hear.

But the words settled in his mind.

And for reasons he didn't fully understand, he made a decision.

When Dylan walked into the Fine Arts classroom, the entire room went silent.

Professor Betsy, a woman in her early forties, looked up from her desk. She adjusted her glasses, her expression instantly shifting into something composed and polite.

She knew exactly who he was.

Everyone did.

"Ah, Dylan Mansfield," she greeted smoothly, her voice practiced. "Since you missed class yesterday, let me introduce you properly."

The way she spoke—controlled, careful—made it clear she wasn't addressing just another student.

She was speaking to someone who could get the principal replaced with a single call.

Dylan barely acknowledged her. His gaze flickered across the room.

Then, he saw her.

Katherine.

Seated near the window, sketching something in her notebook, completely uninterested in the shift in atmosphere.

James nudged him slightly. "Well, this should be interesting."

Dylan smirked and took a seat—right behind her.

The class was nothing more than background noise.

Professor Betsy spoke, but Dylan didn't listen.

His focus remained on Katherine.

She never once turned around.

Not when he shifted in his seat.

Not when he leaned forward slightly.

She was simply unbothered by his presence.

And that—was irritating.

Professor Betsy, however, was very much aware of Dylan's presence. She had been watching him, hoping he would acknowledge the effort she was putting into making him feel comfortable.

But he never spared her a glance.

She cleared her throat. "Dylan, did you get it?"

He barely moved. A slight nod.

Minutes passed.

Again, she tried. "Dylan?"

Another nod.

Twice more, before irritation settled in his chest.

The next time she called his name, Dylan finally lifted his head.

His gaze was sharp, piercing, cold.

Professor Betsy faltered.

Then, she quickly moved on.

She had gotten the message.

Class ended. Students packed their things.

Katherine stood at the same time Dylan did.

She bent to grab her sketchbook just as he stepped forward—a brief, unintentional collision.

She turned.

For the first time, her eyes met his.

Dylan stilled.

Her gaze was calm. Unwavering. Unreadable.

There was no flinch, no flicker of nervousness. No admiration. No fear.

She simply held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary.

Then, she straightened, tucked her sketchbook under her arm, and walked past him.

No hesitation. No reaction.

Dylan, for once, found himself standing still, watching her disappear into the crowd.

James appeared beside him, nudging him playfully. "Dude, she was totally into you. Did you see the way she looked at you?"

Dylan frowned. "No."

James sighed dramatically. "Man, you know nothing about the heart."

Dylan didn't respond.

His mind lingered on the fleeting moment—the depth in her gaze, the quiet intensity.

She wasn't intimidated. She wasn't impressed. She wasn't interested.

And yet—something about her felt familiar.

As Dylan was lost in thought, Professor Betsy approached him, wearing a carefully practiced smile.

"Mr. Mansfield, I hope you found the class entertaining," she said lightly. "I trust I didn't bother you too much today. If you need anything—and I mean anything—you can always ask me. "

Her voice was light, but the subtext was clear.

Dylan's irritation flared.

His voice was calm, amused, laced with quiet cruelty.

"If I asked for what I really want, what would your husband think?"

A flicker of shock, embarrassment—something else—crossed her face.

She parted her lips as if to respond, then thought better of it.

Dylan had already looked away.

Without another word, he walked past her, James trailing behind with a smirk.

For Dylan, the day had only just begun.