Tom's POV
What the fuck is going on with me? It's like I'm giving Tyler leverage over myself. He's obviously using her to get to me, but why the hell am I walking right into the damn trap? I don't get it. It's like I'm deliberately setting myself up for failure. This is exactly what Tyler wants—him to manipulate the situation so I let her in, so she can humiliate me. But when I'm around her, my barriers—those damn walls I've built—crumble just a little. FUCK.
Suddenly, I feel a light tap on my shoulder. I open my eyes and see Mr. Andris standing over me, a knowing smirk on his face. "What's wrong?" he asks, voice calm but curious. "Nothing, sir," I reply quickly, trying to brush it off. 'Imogen is what's wrong,' is what I want to say, but I clamp my mouth shut. I can't say it out loud.
He raises an eyebrow, smirking a little. "Really? Because it looks like you blindly doodled a rough sketch of a woman who looks strangely familiar, and your face is all scrunched up like you're in pain," he says, eyes twinkling with amusement. I swallow hard. "Sorry, sir. I'll clear my mind." He gives me a gentle pat on the shoulder before walking away, leaving me alone with my mess of a mind. I stare down at my sketch—guess who's there? IMOGEN. F**KING STORM.
I stared at the sketch on my drawing canvas, as if somehow it would come to life and say something, to tell me what I should do. But all I got was silence. Frustration bubbled up inside me, and I tore the paper from the canvas, crumpling it into a tight ball. Without a second thought, I threw it into the bin.
I grabbed my bag over my shoulder, my movements quick and reckless. I didn't bother asking for permission—I didn't care. None of this mattered anymore. All I wanted was to get out of here, to escape whatever this was.
The rest of the day sailed by without much incident. I managed to avoid Imogen successfully, kept my distance, and for some reason, that feeling of unease still lingered. It wasn't just the usual bullshit—something felt off. I hadn't seen Tyler all day, which was odd in itself. His goons were here and there, but they kept throwing me stink eyes, like I'd personally killed the motherfucker or something just as shitty.
Did he get suspended? Expelled? Good riddance—serves him right, that self-absorbed asshole. I don't give a fuck what happened to him. When the final bell rang, I grabbed my bag and headed for the school gate, eager to get out of here. But just as I reached the exit, Tyler was waiting. Without a word, he stormed forward and grabbed me by the collar, pinning me against the nearby locker near the gate.
"What the fuck—" I blurted out, voice sharp with surprise and anger. He looked livid, his face twisted with rage. "You're really getting on my nerve, you bitch," he snarled, his grip tightening around my collar like he was trying to crush me.
I didn't flinch. Instead, I scoffed, my voice steady. "That makes two of us," I shot back, refusing to back down—even if he decided to hit me, I didn't give a rat's ass. Let him try. I'd still speak my mind. He lifted his fist, ready to swing, but stopped short. His face scrunched in a mixture of anger, pain, and restraint—like it physically hurt him not to hit me. Like I was some fucking obstacle he couldn't just crush.
"Don't fuck with me, Fisher," he growled, voice low and dangerous. "Next time, I won't hold back." What the hell was with him? I smirked, feeling a twisted sense of satisfaction. "What's stopping you now?" I asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. He hesitated, then slowly opened his fist. His fingers hovered over my face as if he was restraining himself from grabbing my jaw and ripping my face off.
"Stay away, Fisher. You've been warned," he muttered, voice cold as hell. Without another word, he let go of my collar, fixing my shirt himself, brushing off a piece of lint like I was some kind of mess. Then he looked me up and down, eyes narrow and calculating, before turning and walking away.
What the fuck just happened?