Chapter 2: Collision Course

The morning was crisp, the kind that carried the promise of fall in the way the leaves flirted with the wind. Lila Hart walked the three blocks to school with Maddie Rivers at her side—newer to town, a little louder than Lila, but full of the kind of chaotic charm that made her impossible not to like.

"So, my cousin's throwing this bonfire on Saturday," Maddie said, hopping once to avoid a crack in the sidewalk, "but she's one of those girls who uses the word 'vibe' like a full sentence. I may not survive."

Lila laughed, tugging her backpack strap higher. "So don't go."

"I have to go. Family loyalty. It's genetic." Maddie tilted her head. "You should come. You, me, non-vibing solidarity."

"Tempting," Lila said with a small grin. "But I've got a full weekend of scholarship applications, three chapters of Gov, and two chapters of Calculus."

Maddie mock-groaned. "You need a rebellion arc. I'm planning one for you."

"I'm good with the slow burn," Lila said lightly, but a flicker of something passed through her voice—an inside joke with herself.

They reached the school steps, laughter trailing behind them. Students shuffled toward the front doors in clusters, some still yawning, others laughing too loud for morning. The school buzzed with its usual strict rhythm: teachers busy, lockers slamming, the smell of coffee and floor polish battling it out in the air.

Lila and Maddie paused at their lockers, which—fate or luck—were side-by-side.

Maddie rummaged through her bag. "If I survive the bonfire, I'll drag you to the next one. Maybe we'll even spot the elusive Ryan Cole. Has he even been to school this week?"

Lila kept her eyes on her locker as she spun the dial. "He's... around."

Maddie gave her a sideways look but said nothing.

Books swapped. Notebooks tucked. Phones silenced. The morning ritual complete.

They headed toward their shared first-period English class. The hallway was still mostly clear, voices echoing off the tile, footsteps brisk but not hurried. The hum of the school settling into motion.

Inside the classroom, students were beginning to shuffle into seats. Maddie slipped into hers near the window. Lila, reaching for her pen case, paused.

"I left my mechanical pencils in my locker," she said. "Be right back."

Maddie waved a hand without looking up. "Hurry, Ms. Punctuality."

Lila turned and retraced her steps. The hallway was thinner now—only the stragglers remained. Her shoes made light contact with the floor, her walk sure and unhurried. She was thinking about the story she'd nearly finished last night, about the scene she'd dreamed of sketching into words when—

A door to her left caught her eye.

Room 2C.

The handle hung ajar. Light crept through the narrow slit.

Lila stopped.

She frowned—odd. Classrooms weren't left open unsupervised. It was a standard protocol she'd memorized in her hall monitor guidebook. Locked after use. Always.

She leaned slightly, her sense of duty prickling.

Then, curiosity.

Slowly, she pushed the door inward, silent as breath.

The classroom beyond was still. Empty desks, dark chalkboard, rows of books shelved in metal carts. But at the far end, partially obscured by shadow, was someone tall. Male. Hoodie drawn up over dark hair. One hand braced against the wall.

The hiss of spray paint filled the air.

Lila's breath caught.

No. No, no…

She stepped inside instinctively, two feet over the threshold before her voice found shape.

"Hey—!"

He turned.

Ryan Cole.

Caught mid-stroke, the can of red spray still hissing faintly in his hand. The mural half-formed on the pale wall behind him: a face—not complete—but evocative and raw, lines exploding outward like something unspoken breaking free.

His eyes locked with hers. Not startled. Not afraid.

Unapologetic.

"You shouldn't be here," she said, voice sharper than intended, fingers curling against the doorway frame.

He cocked his head, one brow lifting, lips curled with something between amusement and defiance.

"Neither should you," he said calmly, as if they were standing in a grocery aisle instead of in the middle of a minor crime.

"I'm the hall monitor," she snapped. "That door was supposed to be locked."

"Guess someone forgot," Ryan murmured, stepping back from the wall. The can clicked in his hand, finally silenced. The scent of paint hung thick between them—sharp, chemical, oddly intoxicating.

"What are you even doing?" Her voice lowered, not out of fear, but something slower. Warier. A sense that the mural wasn't just vandalism—it was a confession.

He didn't answer right away. His gaze moved over her, not inappropriately, but with the same concentration he'd given the wall seconds earlier.

Then he smiled. "Adding color."

Lila's breath hitched. She hated how he said things—how it made her wonder if he meant more than the words.

"You'll get suspended," she said, quieter now. "Again."

He shrugged, stepping past her toward the open door, close enough that his shoulder brushed hers.

"I've been suspended before."

He brushed past her with the lazy confidence of someone who believed the rules weren't meant for him. His scent—paint, leather, and something warm and masculine—lingered a beat too long in the air. She turned to watch him walk away, his dark hoodie riding up slightly, revealing the edge of his jean jacket—the one that hung just right on his tall, lean frame, worn in the shoulders like he lived hard.

Her fingers moved before her head could stop them.

She grabbed the back hem of his jacket and yanked.

Hard.

Ryan Cole staggered, pivoting halfway to face her, the lopsided grin already forming on his mouth. "Feisty."

Lila's grip tightened. "You're not walking out of here like nothing happened. Not this time."

He arched a brow, as if she'd said something charming instead of furious. "What are you gonna do, Hall Monitor? Drag me to the principal by my hair?"

"Don't tempt me."

He turned fully now, their bodies inches apart, tension vibrating between them like an electric fence. She was angry—she should be angry—but there was something maddening about the way he looked at her. 

"You always this hot when you're righteous?" he murmured.

She narrowed her eyes, refusing to rise to the bait. "You were caught defacing school property, Ryan. Again. And you're coming with me—"

He laughed. A deep, unhurried sound that curled low in her stomach against her will.

"Why do you care so much, Lila? You think if you save the school from me, you'll get a plaque with your name on it?" He leaned closer, voice like dark velvet. "Or maybe you like having something to control."

She stepped forward, chest brushing his as she tried to shove past him. "I care because this place still means something to me. And maybe if it ever meant something to you—"

"It doesn't," he cut in, sharp now. "Not like it used to."

His voice cracked around the edges then and just for a breath of a second, Lila hesitated. She remembered the whispers—about the fights, the detention records, the broken things. But most of all, about Jade. The ex. The implosion.

Her hesitation cost her.

He moved, intending to step back—fast, too fast.

His foot caught on the leg of a desk.

Then he stumbled.

And in the next breath, Lila's hand was still clutching his jacket, pulled forward by momentum and gravity and sheer bad luck.

She tumbled with him.

The air whooshed out of her lungs as they hit the desk—wood cracking beneath their combined weight. A splintered crack echoed through the room, followed by the groan of metal and a final, humiliating thud as the desk gave way entirely beneath them.

Lila landed sprawled on top of Ryan's chest, breath tangled in her throat, one hand splayed across the sharp line of his collarbone.

He looked up at her, lashes dark against flushed cheekbones, lips parted from the impact.

"Well," he said, not quite winded. "That was dramatic."

She stared down at him, breathless, furious, and something else she didn't dare name.

She opened her mouth to spit fire at him—but the sharp intake of breath behind her froze them both.

"What the hell is going on here?"

The voice cut through the tension like glass.

Mr. Halvorsen.

Lila twisted her head in time to see the towering frame of the morning duty teacher step into the classroom, coffee in one hand, authority in the other. His eyes snapped from the broken desk to the position of their bodies, and then to the unmistakable red spray paint on the wall.

He didn't even blink.

"Both of you. Detention."

Lila scrambled off Ryan like she'd been burned, heart galloping in her chest. "Sir—it's not what it—"

"I don't care if you're the Pope, Hart," Halvorsen snapped. "You broke school property. You're both responsible. Report after class. No excuses."

Ryan pushed himself up with a grunt, brushing dust off his hoodie.

Still grinning.

Lila's face flamed.

This wasn't happening. She was the hall monitor. The rule-follower. The girl who handed out detention slips, not received them.

But here she was. Guilty by association.

With him.

She didn't look at him as they followed Halvorsen out, but she could feel his smirk in the air like static before a storm.

And worse—she could feel herself reacting to it.