"You see those two idiots nearly come to blows outside the vending machine?" Barron asked, biting into his sandwich with zero subtlety. "Over a Snickers bar—or at least, that's what they said."
Ms. Kim rolled her eyes. "Let me guess. Jason and Kyle."
Rivera, already laughing, nearly spilled her coffee. "Please tell me it wasn't about what I think it was."
"Oh, it was," Barron said, grinning. "Evans. Again."
Callum looked up just slightly over the rim of his mug.
Kim groaned. "God. What is it with teenage boys and pretty girls who don't look at them twice?"
"Exactly that," Rivera said, still laughing. "She ignores them, so they chase harder. Classic textbook delusion."
"She's got half the senior class tied up in knots," Allen muttered, flipping through his seating chart like it might reveal divine answers. "First week she was here, I caught one of them writing a poem about her on a test. A geometry test."
"She's pretty," Barron said bluntly. "Not gonna lie. And it's not just the face. It's the way she carries herself. She's… mature. Like, unsettlingly mature."
Rivera nodded. "Yeah. Like she knows something you don't. Always watching. Always just… too composed."
Kim sighed. "Too perfect, maybe."
And then—there was a pause. Just long enough for the mood to shift.
Rivera tilted her head. "Wait. Not to be weird, but… did anyone ever figure out how she even got in?"
Callum's fingers tightened on his coffee cup. Barely.
"What do you mean?" Kim asked.
"I mean," Rivera said, sitting up straighter now, "we're a high-selective program. Every year we reject dozens of perfectly qualified students just because of space. We make them wait for the next semester. Sometimes the next year. But Lara Evans? She pops in midyear, no announcement, and she's sitting in third period like she's always been here."
"She transferred, though," Kim said.
"From where?" Rivera asked. "Because her file? It's basically blank. No prior school listed. No parent contacts. No medical history. Just a note at the top that says 'approved via head office.' That's it."
Barron frowned. "Wait, really? No guardian signature or anything?"
"Nope. I checked when she first came in. I thought it was an error. But admin told me to leave it alone."
"That's weird," Kim said slowly. "We can't even hand out Tylenol without parent consent. But we enrolled someone without knowing who's responsible for her?"
Allen sat back in his chair. "She's a senior. Practically done. Maybe it was an emergency transfer."
Rivera shook her head. "Then there'd be documentation. A guardian's name. A digital trail. There's nothing. No student photo in the archive, either. Just the basic ID number and her schedule."
Kim leaned forward, curiosity blooming into concern. "What about the guidance department?"
"They said it was out of their hands. Apparently, someone above them signed off. Like district level or something."
"Why would anyone that high up care about placing a single student in our school?" Barron asked.
"Unless," Kim said slowly, "she's connected."
There it was. That word. Connected. It sat on the table like a challenge.
"Maybe rich," Rivera suggested. "Like legacy money. Donates quietly, pulls strings behind the curtain."
"Or worse," Barron muttered, "maybe she's someone we're not supposed to ask questions about."
No one laughed this time.
The joke landed too close to something else. Something unsaid.
Callum didn't speak. Not once.
He kept his face blank, expression neutral. But inside, the tension had coiled around his spine like barbed wire.
Because now it wasn't just desire clouding his vision.
It was suspicion.
Because it wasn't just the sudden enrollment.
It wasn't just the blank records, the missing contacts, the fast-track placement.
It was the way she had walked in on that first day—already knowing his name.
Already knowing which desk to sit in.
The way she watched him.
The way she left things behind for him to find—intentionally. Like breadcrumbs in the dark.
A ribbon. A notebook. A kiss on the cheek.
And then the door code to her apartment.
0314.
He swallowed hard.
"She's… intense," Allen offered, like he was trying to lighten the mood. "But smart. She asks good questions."
Kim nodded, thoughtful. "Yeah. But sometimes I feel like I'm the one being evaluated when she asks them."
"That's what I mean," Rivera said. "She's not just smart. She's… calculated."
"Like she's playing chess and we're all still figuring out checkers," Barron muttered.
Another beat of silence.
Then, Rivera turned again. "Hayes. You've got her in third, right?"
Callum looked up slowly.
Everyone turned.
"She ever say anything… strange? Do anything weird?"
He blinked. "She's a good student."
"Good like she follows instructions?" Kim asked, studying him. "Or good like… too good?"
"She's… focused," he said. "Quiet. Keeps to herself."
"Really?" Rivera asked. "Because a few students in my class said she's… flirty."
His mouth went dry.
"She's not inappropriate," he said tightly.
Kim raised an eyebrow. "That wasn't the question."
Callum met her gaze.
Held it.
"I've had no issues with her," he said. "She's always respectful."
"Okay," Rivera said, drawing back, hands lifted. "Just curious."
But the weight of their stares lingered.
It sat heavy on his shoulders even after the conversation drifted back toward hallway duties and late lunch slips.
Even after Kim dropped another sarcastic comment about students plagiarizing Shakespeare.
Even after he stood, dumped his cold coffee into the sink, and excused himself with a muttered, "I've got grading to finish."
They let him go.
But he could feel their eyes on his back the whole way out.