"None of your fucking business," he muttered sharply. "Mind your own."
The air between Flynn and the boy behind him felt heavy, sharp-edged, and electric—like a string pulled taut, one wrong tug away from snapping.
Flynn kept his glare steady, jaw clenched tight, as though daring the other to push further.
But Dylan only leaned back, watching him carefully.
When Flynn had first walked into the classroom—late, shoulders slouched, his hair a mess like he'd just rolled out of bed—Dylan hadn't been able to stop staring.
His uniform was wrinkled, the collar half-tucked, and the sneakers on his feet looked worn, the kind of shoes that had already lived through more than one school year.
Most kids in the room had fussed over their appearance, neat uniforms and polished shoes, trying to make the right impression on day one.
But not him. Flynn had walked in like he couldn't care less, like the whole world could spin without him giving a damn.
Something about that had snagged Dylan's attention. The sharp glare, the careless walk, the contradictions. Messy but bold. Tired but biting.
Interesting, Dylan thought, his lips twitching.
Definitely not boring.
And Dylan hated boring.
So when Flynn muttered, "None of your fucking business. Mind your own," Dylan only grinned.
"Feisty," Dylan muttered under his breath, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Figures. Late on the first day and already threatening to pass out. Sharp tongue to match the lazy attitude."
Flynn's brows twitched, but he didn't answer. Instead, he turned forward again and dropped his chin back onto the desk with a dull thunk. His arms folded under his head, a clear sign that the conversation was over—for him, at least.
Unfortunately, Dylan wasn't the type to let things drop.
He leaned forward on his desk, lowering his voice so only Flynn could hear. "What's your deal, anyway? Not enough sleep? Or just allergic to mornings?"
Flynn groaned, muffled against his arms. "Allergic to you."
That drew a chuckle from Dylan, low and warm, carrying a confidence that irritated Flynn more than it should have. "Nice. Bet you practiced that line in front of the mirror."
Before Flynn could throw back another retort, Nathan shot him a quick sideways glance from his seat by the window. "Ignore him," he whispered, barely moving his lips.
But Dylan caught it, of course. "Ignore me? What for? I'm just making conversation with the guy who clearly hates conversations."
Flynn shifted slightly, raising his head enough to pin Dylan with another scowl. "You don't quit, do you?"
"Nope," Dylan said, resting his chin casually in his hand. His grin widened, unbothered by Flynn's obvious annoyance. "Persistent. That's what they call me."
Nathan sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Great. First day of class and Flynn's already attracting trouble.
Before Flynn could retort, the door at the front creaked open. The classroom noise dwindled as a woman stepped inside, her heels clicking softly against the linoleum floor.
Dylan straightened in his seat, eyes narrowing slightly. For a moment, his chest tightened in an unfamiliar way. The teacher—sharp suit, measured steps, hair tied neatly into a bun—carried herself with a poise that reminded him a little too much of someone else. His stepmother.
The resemblance wasn't perfect, but it was there—in the curve of her mouth, in the way her eyes swept across the room with both authority and subtle calculation. The hairs at the back of Dylan's neck prickled before he forced himself to look away, sinking back into his chair. Don't overthink it. She's not her.
"Good morning, class," the woman said, setting her books neatly on the desk. Her voice was steady, clear. "I'm Amanda Gonzales, your adviser for this semester. Let's get along well."
"Good morning, Ma'am," the class chorused in uneven unison.
Flynn didn't bother saying it. His lips barely moved, but Dylan noticed. Of course he did.
Amanda began writing her name and contact number on the board in careful strokes, giving the students a moment to settle. That moment was more than enough for Dylan to lean forward again, his voice dipping low with mischief.
"Didn't even bother to greet the teacher, huh? Careful. Someone might think you're rude."
Flynn's head jerked up, his eyes narrowing into slits. "And someone might think you're annoying."
"I'd rather be annoying than invisible." Dylan flashed a grin, as if he'd scored a point.
Nathan shot Flynn a warning glance, his lips pressing into a thin line. But Flynn couldn't help it—the guy's persistence grated on his nerves.
Amanda turned back to face the class, clapping her hands once. "Alright. Roll call."
The routine began, names echoing in order. When she reached "Flynn Amaro Luz," Flynn raised his hand lazily, voice flat. "Here."
Amanda's gaze lingered on him for a brief moment, as though she'd noted the disinterest in his tone. But she moved on without comment.
"Dylan Montenegro?"
"Present," Dylan said easily, his tone smooth, almost practiced. Amanda gave him a quick nod, satisfied.
Nathan's name followed soon after, and he answered dutifully. Then the roll went on, students one after another, until the class list was done and Amanda launched into the first-day orientation.
Flynn slouched in his seat, tuning half of it out.
He didn't notice Dylan's eyes flicking toward him every so often, quietly studying him.
---
As the hour crawled by, Amanda explained the basics of class rules, expectations, and upcoming activities. The other students listened—some diligently taking notes, others pretending to while doodling in their notebooks.
Flynn, however, leaned back with his arms crossed, his expression one of practiced boredom.
"You look thrilled," Dylan whispered, leaning sideways just enough for his words to slip past the noise of chalk against the board.
Flynn didn't even glance at him. "You look desperate."
"Ouch." Dylan pressed a hand to his chest theatrically. "Sharp tongue, like I said."
"Can you shut up for five minutes?" Flynn muttered.
"Can you go five minutes without glaring at me?" Dylan countered smoothly.
Nathan pinched the bridge of his nose again, muttering under his breath, "This is going to be a long year."
Flynn shot him a look that screamed help me, but Nathan only shrugged. He'd known Flynn long enough to understand—once Flynn and someone else locked horns, no one could stop the clash.
---
Midway through class, Amanda moved closer to their row to hand out printed schedules. Dylan caught her profile as she leaned down to pass a stack forward. His stomach twisted again—the way her brow furrowed when she concentrated, the curve of her jaw—it was uncanny.
Memories of his stepmother flashed unbidden. The cool, measured way she used to regard him. The faintly judgmental air, like he was never quite enough.
He blinked hard, pushing the thought away.
When Amanda's gaze passed over him, Dylan sat straighter, expression smooth and unbothered. She didn't linger, moving on to the next student without pause.
Still, the unease clung to him like static. He tapped his pen idly against the desk, a steady rhythm, until Flynn shot him a sideways glance.
"Planning to drum us all to death?" Flynn hissed.
"Planning to nap through the year?" Dylan shot back, grin returning despite the faint knot in his chest.
Flynn rolled his eyes and dropped his head back onto the desk. Conversation over—at least for now.
---
When the bell finally rang, the room erupted into motion. Chairs scraped, bags zipped, students filled the air with chatter. Amanda gave a final reminder about tomorrow's orientation activities before exiting, her heels clicking briskly against the floor.
Flynn was the first to sling his bag over his shoulder, muttering, "Finally."
Nathan caught up with him quickly, shooting Dylan a wary glance before following Flynn out the door. Dylan watched them go, lips quirking.
"Interesting," he murmured to himself.
The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the schoolyard by the time Dylan stepped through the main gate. The air outside was thick with noise—vendors calling out their wares, students laughing, cars honking from the road beyond.
A sleek black car idled at the curb, tinted windows gleaming. Wilson stood beside it, posture straight, eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on Dylan. Relief softened his features.
"Young master," Wilson said as Dylan approached, his voice firm but edged with concern. "I came to fetch you. It isn't safe to be walking here alone. Too many people, too unpredictable."
Dylan's steps slowed. Just beyond Wilson's shoulder, his eyes caught on two familiar figures weaving through the throng—Flynn and Nathan, walking side by side, their silhouettes sharp against the glowing street. Flynn's head was tilted slightly downward, hands shoved in his pockets, while Nathan talked animatedly beside him.
For a fleeting second, Dylan's gaze lingered.
Then he turned back to Wilson, his expression unreadable. "No need. I'll manage."
"Young master, please. Your father—"
"I said I'll manage." Dylan's tone was final, brooking no argument. He lifted a hand and hailed a passing taxi. The driver slowed, window rolling down.
Wilson's brows furrowed, but Dylan was already pulling open the cab's door. Before sliding in, he cast one last glance toward the street. Flynn and Nathan were nearly out of sight now, swallowed by the crowd.
A faint smirk tugged at Dylan's lips as he settled into the backseat. "Let's go."
The taxi pulled away, blending into the stream of traffic. Wilson remained at the curb, tense and uneasy, watching until the cab disappeared from view.