Lynn’s POV
I remembered the first time she laughed.
It wasn’t graceful, or shy, or even ladylike — it was messy and bright and completely alive.
We were both stuck in after-school detention, mopping the gym floor after some genius decided to fill the basketballs with paint. The entire place smelled like soap and rain and trouble.
The mop handle kept slipping through my fingers; she was humming under her breath, off-key, completely unbothered.
Then she slipped.
One heartbeat she was upright, the next she was halfway to the floor, and instinct had me catching her before her head hit the tiles.
“Careful,” I said, trying not to smile.
“You mean graceful,” she shot back, pretending to bow. Her ponytail had come loose; a streak of red paint cut across her cheek like war-paint.
I laughed
