Chapter 4: Terms of Engagement

The final scrape of a chair echoed like a bell tolling the end of Lila's purgatory.

Coach Danson dismissed them with a grunt and a "No more broken furniture," as he packed up his clipboard and ambled off, leaving behind a trail of gym-sock musk and lenient supervision.

Students filtered out in pairs and trios, laughing low, mumbling about weekend plans and fast food, scattering like autumn leaves caught in a dying breeze.

But Lila stayed seated.

The notebook—her notebook—lay zipped and sealed in her bag now, pressed against her ribcage like it could melt through her. She hadn't said a single word since Ryan's whispered comment, not since he'd flipped through the most intimate pages of her mind and smiled like he enjoyed it.

Her pride screamed.

But her pulse whispered something else entirely.

She stood finally, trying not to glance his way. And failed.

He was leaning against the exit, the library doors flung wide behind him, a slant of gold evening light haloing his lean frame. His hoodie was now half-zipped, his jaw shadowed in that almost-man way, arms crossed in a posture that dared.

Dared her to try to walk past him.

She didn't.

Instead, she drew herself up, shoulders squared, expression neutral. "Move."

Ryan lifted a brow. "We need to talk."

"No, we don't."

His smile tilted. "Lila."

It was the way he said her name. Low and slow. Like it tasted better on his tongue than it should have.

Her eyes narrowed. "About what?"

He reached inside the inner pocket of his jacket and mimed flipping invisible pages in mid-air. "Your literary genius."

She froze. One breath. Two.

"I said it was private," she hissed, stepping closer, voice razor-edged. "You had no right—"

"I never said I was noble," he said, pushing off the door with the kind of lazy grace that came from knowing everyone was watching even when they weren't. "But I am intrigued."

"By what? That I write?" she snapped, burning under the collar. "Or that I don't write fairy tales?"

He leaned down, close enough that the scent of cedar and faint mint gum hit her senses before his words did.

"I'm intrigued that the girl who polices hallway PDA writes about doing very... unlawful things in janitor closets."

She went red. She hated that she went red.

"I should report you for harassment."

Ryan smirked, unbothered. "You could. Or... you could hear me out."

She blinked. "Hear what out?"

He shrugged. "You're good. Really good. You've got a wild imagination, Monitor." His voice dropped. "I'm offering you something better than detention."

"Oh really?" Her sarcasm snapped like a whip. "What? A publishing deal?"

"No," he said, leaning against the doorframe again like this was just casual. Normal. Not earth-shattering. "A reenactment."

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

His eyes gleamed with something dark and bright all at once. "We act out the stories. Together. Scene by scene. No judgment. Just... experience."

Lila's stomach dropped. "You're insane."

"Maybe," he said. "But you're curious."

She hated that she was.

He leaned in just enough that her skin prickled. "Let's say we start with Chapter Three. The locker room one. Saturday. My place."

Her heart stuttered. Her brain screamed. Her lips parted—then shut again.

"You're not serious."

He grinned. "Dead serious."

"And if I say no?"

His expression didn't change. But the air shifted. Quietly.

"Then maybe I slip up," he said softly. "And someone finds out their golden girl writes dirty dreams about bad boys with locker room keys."

Lila went still. Cold and Burning.

It wasn't a threat, not really. Not with violence or cruelty. But it was pressure, precise and hot. And it worked.

She lifted her chin, slowly.

"Fine," she said, every syllable a blade. "Saturday."

His grin widened, and damn him, it was gorgeous.

"Atta girl."

She pushed past him, nearly brushing his chest as she did. Her bag thumped against her hip like a warning bell. She didn't look back.

Not even when he called after her:

"Wear something comfortable. Or don't."

---

Lila walked fast. Not the purposeful kind of walk she normally prided herself on—no, this was a stormy stomp, the sort where her bag bounced against her hip like it had something to say and her ponytail swished like a metronome set to rage. The suburban sidewalks of Eastborough blurred as she half-marched past perfectly trimmed hedges and cheerful bird feeders, barely noticing the chirping world around her. All she could hear was his voice. "Let's say we start with Chapter Three..." The gall. The gall of him.

Her thoughts spiraled faster than her legs could carry her. Was she really going to show up tomorrow? Was she really going to let Ryan freaking Cole—a menace in skinny jeans and sarcasm—corner her into a performance of her own fantasies just to save face? Her inner self warred with itself, one side screaming absolutely not, the other whispering ...but what if? Her pride recoiled. Her curiosity... well, it stirred. Against her will. Naturally. Because life was unfair and Ryan had that stupid mouth and that even stupider smirk and an annoyingly perfect jawline that she absolutely did not want to think about.

Then came the buzz. Just as she passed the neighborhood bakery, her phone vibrated twice in quick succession. She frowned, tugging it from her bag with a sigh and thumbed the screen to life.

Unknown Number. A link.

Location Shared: "Ryan Cole's Hideout of Charm and Chaos." And below it, a message: "Tomorrow. 4PM. Bring your imagination. I'll bring the snacks. 😏"

Lila stopped so abruptly an elderly man walking his golden retriever gave her a side-eye. She blinked as her fingers flew.

Lila: How did you get my number?? Angry emoji. Obvious punctuation. Professional outrage.

Seconds later, a reply pinged.

Ryan: "Wouldn't you like to know 😉"

She stared. She gaped. She considered flinging the phone into the bakery's trash can, or better yet, through Ryan's hypothetical front window. The audacity. The smugness. The emoji. He used a wink. Who used a wink in 2025 unless they were trying to ruin lives? Her life, apparently. That's who.

She kept walking, but it was less stomping now—more flailing. She muttered to herself like a girl on the brink of madness.

"He's not even my type. Tall, smug, infuriating... ugh."

Her cheeks were hot and not from the sun. A passing toddler in a tricycle rang his bell at her, and she glared back like it was his fault. She looked insane. Absolutely deranged. And still—her heart thumped traitorously in her chest. Curiosity buzzed louder than her phone.

What if she just showed up? Just to see. Just to—no. No. Nope. Bad brain. Down, girl.

By the time she reached her street, the sun was dipping low, painting the sidewalks in warm apricot and shadows. Her phone buzzed again. She didn't check it. She knew it was him. Probably another emoji. Probably something stupidly clever. Lila exhaled, deeply and dramatically, like a woman in a historical drama whose corset was two laces too tight.

"I am not going," she said aloud, to the squirrels.

"I am not going."

But deep down, her stomach already had butterflies. And worse—they were flirting.