Crestwood High had its own ecosystem — not just the usual high school cliques, but something deeper, sharper.
Unwritten rules ran through the halls like invisible tripwires: who you could talk to, what you could get away with, and who you absolutely did not mess with.
Everyone knew the names that mattered.
Lucas King.
And the Ice Queen.
The morning sun broke over the cracked asphalt of the student lot, casting long shadows across dented cars and faded parking lines. The gates had been open barely fifteen minutes, and the place already thrummed with energy — basketballs thumping against pavement, the shrill sound of girls laughing too loudly, the metallic slam of lockers from somewhere inside.
Through it all, Alisha walked in like she owned her own timezone.
Not slow exactly — but unhurried. Detached.
A black leather jacket hung loosely off her shoulders, zipped halfway over a cropped white tee. Her jeans were ripped in two places, scuffed combat boots whispering against the pavement. The oversized sunglasses covered half her face, reflecting the chaos around her instead of letting any of it in.
She carried a bag slung casually over one shoulder, but it looked like it weighed nothing. Everything about her looked like it weighed nothing — or at least, nothing here could touch her.
"Morning, Alisha!" A group of juniors waved from the fence.
She gave a polite nod. No wave. No smile.
By the vending machine, a first-year boy was struggling to shove a crumpled dollar into the slot, his small shoulders hunched in frustration. Alisha stopped just long enough to take the bill from his hand, smooth it against her thigh, and slide it into the machine without a word. The boy blinked up at her, startled, but before he could thank her, she'd already walked away.
That was Alisha — cold as the glass she wore over her eyes, yet every so often, the ice cracked. But if you told anyone she'd helped you, they'd probably laugh in your face.
A shrill voice cut through the noise. "Aliii!"
Bettina.
She came weaving through the crowd like a ray of glitter in human form — floral skirt, cropped cardigan, curls bouncing around her shoulders. The smile on her face could power an entire city block.
"Your lipstick's crooked," Alisha said as soon as Bettina reached her.
Bettina grinned, looping an arm through hers. "And your mood's as sunny as ever."
Alisha shrugged. "Be grateful I noticed."
They started toward the front steps, Bettina chattering about some drama in her history class while Alisha let the words wash over her like background music. She didn't need to respond much — Bettina's energy filled in the gaps.
They were halfway up the steps when something changed.
It wasn't a sound at first. It was… the absence of sound. A subtle hush rolling over the courtyard like a shadow.
Then came the low growl of an engine.
Not the cheap, buzzing kind. This was deep, slow, expensive — the sound of something dangerous taking its time. Heads began to turn before the bike even appeared, whispers rising in a wave.
"Lucas."
"Shit, he's here."
"Don't look, don't look—"
The matte-black motorcycle came into view, sliding into a space at the far edge of the lot. It was clean but worn in the way expensive things get when their owner actually uses them. The rider wore a black T-shirt that fit like it had been custom-cut, dark jeans, and boots that hit the pavement with a dull thud as he swung one leg over.
Lucas King removed his helmet.
The crowd didn't gasp, but it might as well have.
Chocolate-brown skin caught the morning light, his jawline casting a sharp shadow. His eyes — darker than storm clouds — swept the space with a calm, almost lazy kind of awareness. You didn't need to know who he was to understand he was dangerous.
Leader of The Black Fangs. Not officially a gang, not officially illegal — just officially untouchable. Teachers avoided his path. Students obeyed without being told. No one admitted they were afraid, but everyone was.
Lucas adjusted the gloves in his hands, taking his time, like the world could wait. His gaze moved over the courtyard — the basketball players who suddenly stopped their game, the girls pretending not to stare, the guys who stepped back without thinking.
Then his eyes found her.
Alisha hadn't stopped walking, hadn't even slowed, but she knew. She could feel it — the weight of his stare settling over her like a heavy coat.
Beside her, Bettina tensed. "He's looking at you."
Alisha's lips twitched. "So?"
Lucas started toward them. He didn't rush. He didn't need to. The crowd shifted automatically, opening a clear path as if some unspoken law demanded it.
When he reached the bottom of the steps, he stopped. For a moment, he just looked at her. Not scanning, not sizing her up — just looking, like he'd already decided she was worth the effort.
"Ice Queen," he said, his voice low, smooth, carrying in the quiet.
"King," she replied, her tone flat and unshaken.
Someone in the crowd murmured, "She's not even scared…"
Lucas's mouth twitched, like he'd heard it. "Haven't seen you at The Pit lately."
"I've been busy."
"Too busy for me?"
She lowered her sunglasses just enough to meet his eyes. "Too busy for trouble."
He smirked, slow and deliberate. "Same thing."
Alisha slid the glasses back up. "See you around, King."
She stepped past him, unhurried, leaving only the faint scent of her perfume and the sound of her boots against the pavement.
Lucas turned, watching her go, his smirk deepening.
And in the quiet that followed, the unspoken truth settled over the courtyard:
When the Ice Queen and the King finally stood in the same place, you didn't just watch.
You remembered.