Ice Queen? or Just a Tsundere?

Crestwood High moved like clockwork. Bell to bell, minute by minute, a carefully orchestrated chaos of voices and footsteps and overlapping conversations. Isabelle Chen had learned, long ago, how to move through it without being swept up in the noise. 

She walked the halls like a current that never got caught in the tide fast, straight-backed, earbuds in but always off, letting people assume she wasn't listening. Sometimes she wasn't. Other times, she caught more than she let on. 

This morning, she'd already overheard three whispered debates over who had the highest GPA, two complaints about AP Bio's pop quiz, and one very clumsy attempt to describe her as "kind of scary, but like, in a hot way?" 

Isabelle didn't flinch at any of it. She never did. 

She knew how they saw her. The girl who always had the answer. The top of every honor roll. The one who walked out of every test with that unreadable expression and somehow always scored the curve-breaking 99. 

Smart. Intense. Untouchable. 

The untouchable part was fine with her. It made things easier. 

"Okay, you definitely intimidated that freshman into apologizing just by existing," Mei said as they slid into their usual seats in Honors Lit. 

"He cut the printer line," Isabelle replied, flipping open her notebook. "This isn't middle school anymore. He'll learn." 

"He looked like he was going to cry." 

"He'll learn faster, then." 

Mei grinned, twirling her pen. "You are so someone's villain origin story." 

Isabelle smirked but didn't answer. Instead, she opened her heavily annotated copy of The Bell Jar and scanned her margin notes. Five minutes into the discussion, half the class had started secretly copying her phrasing into their own books. 

By third period, she'd already answered two questions in AP Calculus, corrected a mislabeled graph in Chemistry, and reorganized her planner into four color-coded sections. 

And still, somewhere in the quiet part of her mind, her thoughts drifted. 

To yesterday. 

To the frosting swirl on a cookie. The look on Noah Harding's face when he saw her in the doorway surprised, maybe even a little flustered. The way his voice had sounded, quieter than she'd ever heard it. Less performative. More… real. 

"Next time, you don't have to lie about a wrong turn." 

She hated how those words had stayed with her. 

She didn't want to think about him. Not in that way. But it was like trying not to touch a sore tooth. The awareness never really left. 

… 

Lunchtime. 

The cafeteria buzzed with overlapping conversations, the scrape of trays, and someone yelling about a test they definitely failed. Isabelle moved through the crowd like smoke sleek and fast, her steps precise. 

Heads turned when she passed. 

Not in the way they did for Noah—all high-fives and shoulder claps and "what's up, man?" charisma. With Isabelle, it was quieter. Less like applause, more like reverence. 

People didn't crowd her. They parted for her. Spoke softer when she was near, like they thought she might judge their vocabulary if they said the wrong word too loudly. 

She sat by the window, as always, unpacking her lunch with surgical precision: a thermos of rice and vegetables, a side of oranges, and a folded napkin her dad had tucked into the bag with a crooked little smiley face drawn on it. 

Mei flopped into the seat across from her seconds later, half-laughing. "Breaking news," she said between bites of her sandwich. "Someone tried to put Harding on the Homecoming ballot again." 

Isabelle didn't blink. "They do that every year." 

"Yeah, but this time they spelled his name Noah Hottie and apparently it still got approved." 

A pause. Then Isabelle shrugged. "I mean... it's not inaccurate." 

Mei froze, eyes wide. "Isabelle Chen. Did you just say that out loud?" 

"Objective observation. Calm down." 

"You like him." 

"I do not." 

"You like the way he—okay, never mind. I'll save it for your wedding toast." 

"Mei." 

"Fine, fine," Mei grinned, smug. "But for the record, I'm putting ten bucks on you two making out before October." 

"Double it," Isabelle muttered, "and put the money toward therapy." 

… 

Sixth period. Library Aide. 

Isabelle liked this period. It was quiet, useful, and the librarian trusted her not to shelve books alphabetically like a Neanderthal. 

Most students didn't bother coming here unless they needed a last-minute study cram or to print something for their next class. That made it safe. Predictable. 

Today, she was halfway through sorting a stack of overdue returns when a voice interrupted her thoughts. 

"Need help alphabetizing or are you still convinced the Dewey Decimal system is a conspiracy?" 

She turned. 

Noah. 

Of course. 

He wasn't supposed to be here. His sixth period was Econ. But there he was, leaning casually against the end of the bookshelf like he hadn't just unbalanced her entire afternoon with one line. 

"I'm shocked you found the library," she said coolly. "You sure you're not lost?" 

"I needed a quiet place. You're not the only one who finds the cafeteria unbearable." 

She raised a brow. "You ditched class." 

He shrugged. "Call it extra credit for impulse control." 

For a moment, they just stood there. The tension between them was like static: not quite loud, but impossible to ignore. Somewhere behind them, someone's printer started whirring. The only other sound was the shuffle of pages and the soft click of her pen against the cart. 

She wanted to ignore him. But her pulse was doing that thing again. The same flutter it had done yesterday. The same shift that made her forget how to categorize nonfiction biographies without rechecking the call numbers twice. 

"Have you started planning yet?" he asked. 

"For Monday." 

She blinked. "Fall Festival?" 

"No, world domination." 

She gave him a look. "Yes. I have a shared doc. Tentative schedule, budget outlines, club coordination chart. I was going to email it later." 

He looked impressed. "Of course you were." 

She paused. "You?" 

"I've got some ideas," he said. "Figured I'd wait and see what kind of system you already had before I stepped on it." 

She tilted her head. "That's new." 

"What is?" 

"Consideration." 

He paused, like the word caught him off guard. 

"I'm not being considerate," he said finally. "I just... don't want us to crash this thing before it starts." 

She almost believed him. Almost. 

He smiled that lopsided grin, the one that felt less curated. A little softer. A little more unsure. 

"I've got layers, Chen." 

She hated that her stomach flipped. "So do onions." 

He laughed-a real one. Not the crowd-pleaser. Something smaller. Like it was just for her. 

The moment stretched. Comfortable. Then strange. Then too comfortable. 

She broke it. "If you're going to loiter here, make yourself useful. Returns go on that cart." 

He gave a mock salute. "Yes, ma'am." 

She turned back to the shelves, but she could feel his presence beside her warm, humming with possibility. 

And for some reason she hadn't figured out yet, she was very confortible with him here.