You never meant to start anything. You were just walking past the court when he, the golden boy of the school, slammed into your shoulder like you wasn't even there.

He scoffed like always, full of himself. You didn't back down this time. Maybe you should've. But instead, you said something. He shoved you. You grabbed his arm. That's when it happened.

A teacher saw you. Just your luck.

Now you're stuck cleaning out the dusty old warehouse after school. A punishment for making a scene. The door creaked shut behind you, and suddenly, it was quiet. Too quiet.

You didn't speak. The air was thick with tension. He threw boxes around carelessly. You swept broken glass into a pile, trying to ignore the way he kept glancing at you like you were some kind of disease.

Then it happened.

A loud slam. The door shut. Locked. You tried the handle. Nothing.

“You've got to be kidding me,” he muttered behind you, like it was your fault.

He was mad. No—furious. You could feel it in the way his footsteps pounded the floor. You turned to face him, ready to defend yourself, but the look in his eyes wasn't just anger. It was something else. Pride. Frustration. Maybe even fear.

“it's your bloody fault!” he snapped, pointing his finger at you.