Isabelle Chen had a system.
Morning routine timed down to the minute. Notes color-coded by subject. Weekly poetry goals written in her journal always in blue ink, never black. She liked the predictability, the order. The feeling that, even when life got chaotic, there were still some things she could control.
Like now. Lunch period. Table by the windows. Book in hand.
The cafeteria buzzed with overlapping conversations, the hum of vending machines, and the occasional squeak of sneakers on linoleum. Isabelle tuned it all out. Her eyes scanned the words on the page, but her mind kept flickering back to that morning.
Harding, looking forward to seeing your 'innovative' ideas for the Student Council's Fall Festival.
It had been a throwaway jab. Something to keep him on his toes. She wasn't even trying to be particularly sharp just routine maintenance on their long-standing rivalry. But the way his smile had tightened, the faint hesitation in his usually snappy comebacks... something about it had stuck.
She hated that it stuck.
Her best friend, Mei Park, plopped into the seat across from her, pulling her back to the present. "Let me guess," Mei said, eyeing the cover of the novel, "dystopian with a morally ambiguous female lead?"
"Close. Literary fiction with a morally ambiguous male one."
Mei grinned. "You do know how to pick 'em."
Isabelle smirked and finally closed the book. Mei was one of the few people she let into her world. Witty, observant, and wonderfully chaotic, Mei balanced out Isabelle's intensity in a way few others could manage.
"I saw you verbally sparring with Prince Charming this morning," Mei added, popping open her lunch container. "Very 'Pride and Prejudice' of you."
"I wasn't sparring. I was—"
"Wielding verbal knives with casual elegance. I know. I'm your biggest fan."
Isabelle rolled her eyes. "Noah Harding thinks he runs this school."
"Doesn't he?"
"Not in my universe."
"Well, in your universe," Mei said, pointing a chopstick at her, "he's also apparently cute, smart, and extremely obsessed with beating you at everything."
"He's not cute."
Mei raised an eyebrow.
Isabelle ignored it. "He's... practiced. Polished. He walks around like he knows everyone's watching. Because they are."
Mei nodded thoughtfully. "Okay, but what if and stay with me here you like being watched by him?"
Isabelle gave her a flat look. "What are you, my therapist?"
"Only if I get paid in fries."
Isabelle chuckled despite herself and stole one from Mei's tray. She glanced across the cafeteria-not looking for him-and saw Noah at a table near the center of the room. His signature charisma on full display as he laughed at something his friend Zay said. He leaned in to read something on Emma Reyes' notes, his brow furrowed, then grinned as he pointed out something she'd missed.
She frowned at that last scene for some reason.
He was annoyingly competent.
And, worse, he genuinely seemed to care about the things he did.
"You're staring," Mei pointed out.
Isabelle snapped her gaze back to her tray.
"I'm analyzing. It's different."
"Oh right, forgive me. Science fair champion logic."
Isabelle didn't reply. She picked at her sandwich, only half-listening as Mei launched into a story about the disaster that was her morning calculus class. In truth, her mind was drifting again to the planner in her locker, to the upcoming Fall Festival project, to the very real possibility that she'd be forced to work with Noah Harding again.
She hadn't forgotten last year's Spring Showcase. They'd been co-leads then, too him representing the Student Council, her heading the Academic Planning Committee. What started as collaborative strategy meetings turned into long, tense evenings in the library, trading barbed commentary over scheduling conflicts and budget proposals.
But somewhere between the passive-aggressive sticky notes and late-night snack runs, he'd offered her a genuine compliment on her presentation design. She'd muttered a begrudging thanks, and for a single heartbeat, the rivalry had felt less like a warzone and more like... tension of a different kind.
She didn't like that either.
After lunch, Isabelle and Mei walked toward their lockers, the crowds thinning out as people filtered into their next classes.
"Are you still doing your Tuesday library shifts?" Mei asked.
"Yeah. Starting today."
"You gonna write?"
Isabelle shrugged. "Maybe."
She didn't talk about her poetry. Not even with Mei. It felt too personal. Too exposed. Like opening her chest and saying, Here, take a look at everything I don't say out loud.
She'd rather keep her walls up.
Noah Harding didn't believe in walls. He believed in stages. Spotlights. He was all shine and speech. She was the shadows behind the curtain, and she liked it that way.
Mostly.
…
Seventh period. Independent Study.
Her favorite part of the day.
The classroom was nearly empty just a few seniors quietly typing away or reading. Isabelle claimed her usual seat by the back window, pulled out her leather-bound journal, and clicked her pen.
You keep looking at me like you know something I don't.
Like there's a secret between us I never agreed to share.
You smile like a question.
I answer by not speaking.
The words came quickly. They always did when she let herself go quiet. Writing gave her a voice that didn't need to impress or argue or spar. It just... existed.
Her hand paused.
You smile like a question.
She hated that it sounded like him.
After school, Isabelle lingered in the library. She wasn't ready to go home not to the quiet hum of the air conditioner, or her father's latest list of colleges she "might want to consider," or the echoing absence of her mother's voice in the kitchen.
Here, at least, the silence was chosen.
She tucked her journal back into her bag and wandered the aisles, letting her fingers drift across the spines of books she'd already read twice over. She liked this version of herself untethered, not performing.
When she rounded the corner toward the back study room, she froze.
Through the glass, she saw him.
Noah.
Alone.
In the corner of the room.
Wearing an apron.
Baking?
She blinked. No-decorating. A tray of cookies sat in front of him, and he was piping delicate little swirls of frosting onto each one with such precision, such focus, that it didn't even look like him.
Gone was the golden boy persona. He wasn't performing.
He was just... existing.
She stepped back, careful not to make a sound, her heart inexplicably louder than it had been all day.
She didn't know what surprised her more that he was baking.
Or that it suited him.