Hot and Cold
1177 Words
He walked in like the halls parted just for him.
The air shifted. The lights dimmed—or maybe it was just my brain short-circuiting. Because in he came, like a storm wrapped in black fabric and attitude, blazing so hot he should’ve set off the fire alarm.
Dark tousled hair, golden-brown skin like he’d been kissed by the sun somewhere far from here, and muscles that lived quietly beneath a tight black tee. His jeans were just the right kind of worn. His boots? Untied but deliberate. His whole vibe screamed danger, like he’d just stepped off a motorcycle in slow motion while thunder rolled in the distance.
And his face?
God must’ve hit copy and paste from Tom Holland’s file and then upgraded it with sharper cheekbones and a wicked edge. But it was his eyes that really did it—dark emerald green, almost glowing, and when they locked on mine, I swear—swear—I felt something click. Like a switch.
But who was I kidding?
Me? Getting the hot new guy’s attention?
Yeah, right. He probably didn’t even see me.
Besides, the school was already swimming with rumors about him. Some said he’d been expelled from his last school for fighting a teacher. Others whispered darker things, like how his dad had murdered his mom in some crime-of-the-century mess that got hushed up. Typical high school nonsense. By lunch, most of the stories had fizzled into memes.
Until he walked into the cafeteria.
And Amanda Bentley pounced.
Like a lioness spotting a gazelle in six-inch heels and lip gloss. She practically skated across the floor in her designer wedges and launched herself into the seat next to him. Laughing like a malfunctioning robot horse, twirling her hair with desperate fingers.
I rolled my eyes so hard I might’ve pulled a muscle.
She leaned close, her voice a fake sugary squeal as she tried to charm him, probably offering him a tour of her “kingdom” or whatever she called her clique.
But then it happened.
Martha Williams—quiet, mousy, mathlete Martha—accidentally dropped her tray beside Amanda, and Amanda, of course, seized the opportunity to go full Mean Girl mode.
“Oh my GOD, Martha, are you BLIND?” Amanda screeched, standing as if she’d been hit by radiation. “Did you spill your prison food on me?”
The table cackled.
Except him.
The new guy—Emery, I think someone said his name was—stood up without a word. Calm. Controlled. Walked away mid-laugh like he’d smelled something rotten and couldn’t stand it.
The table fell silent.
Amanda’s smile froze.
I snickered—accidentally louder than I intended. It slipped out like a hiccup.
Amanda’s head snapped toward me. Her eyes narrowed into frosty slits that could cut through concrete.
And that’s when I knew.
The match had been lit.
Game on, poser.
I casually closed my lunchbox and slipped out of the cafeteria, because let’s face it—I needed to know more. Emery was a mystery wrapped in a black hoodie, and he’d just humiliated Amanda Bentley.
That made him… interesting.
I trailed him at a distance, keeping to the shadows. He slipped through the side doors and headed outside. I followed, careful not to crunch gravel. When I peeked around the corner, I caught sight of him leaning against the wall, flicking a lighter to life.
He lit a cigarette.
Ugh. Points lost for that.
I watched him exhale, eyes closed, as smoke curled from his lips. Still—there was something about him. Sad. Beautiful. Dangerous. The kind of boy my mom warned me about and my books warned me not to fall for.
Suddenly, he turned.
Our eyes locked again.
Crap.
I ducked—fast—and stumbled into the nearest classroom door I could find. Slammed it shut behind me. My heart was galloping like it was in a race for its life.
What was I thinking? Following him like some stalker-turned-scooby-doo sidekick?
I pressed my back to the door and sighed, sliding down to sit in one of the desks. Maybe I’d just wait here a minute. Let him wander off. Maybe he didn’t even—
Click.
The door opened.
My breath caught.
There. He. Was.
He stepped in, slow and smooth, like he belonged in this room, like I didn’t. His eyes locked on mine. I froze, completely powerless as he crossed the floor, the air thick with the scent of peppermint and danger.
He stopped in front of my desk.
So close I could feel the warmth of him.
My lungs forgot how to work.
He leaned forward slightly, a smirk twitching at the corner of his lips.
“Why are you following me?” he asked.
I fumbled for words. “I—I—I wasn’t—”
“Yeah, you were.” His voice was smooth, low, dangerous with a twist of teasing. “Hmm… are you into me?”
That smirk again.
“No!” I blurted out.
His hand reached for the notebook I’d been clutching to my chest like a life vest.
“No, wait—”
But it was too late.
He flipped it open.
And there it was: my revenge journal.
Names. Timelines. Doodles of Amanda with devil horns. The whole conspiracy wall in paper form.
He flipped through, amused.
“What do we have here…” he muttered.
Then he leaned in.
So close I could smell the sweet mint on his breath. My entire brain short-circuited. My heart was malfunctioning.
“You’re a dark one, aren’t ya?” he whispered.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My voice had packed up and left the building.
Please don’t turn the page, I begged in my mind.
Of course, he did.
And that’s when he saw it.
Amanda’s name circled in red.
Underlined.
Decorated with tiny flames.
His eyes darkened. The playful smirk faded, replaced with something colder.
“Oh,” he said, his voice suddenly deeper. “Your beef is with Amanda?”
I swallowed. “Yeah.”
He looked at me again—really looked at me—and then leaned back, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“I’m in.”
My heart skipped.
“What?”
“I said I’m in. She needs to be taken down a few pegs anyway. I hate girls like that.”
I blinked. “Wait, you don’t even know me.”
He tilted his head. “Don’t need to. I know her. And I know people like you don’t declare war unless they’re really, really done.”
He flipped my notebook closed and handed it back.
Our fingers brushed.
A jolt ran up my arm.
“You’ve got guts,” he said. “I like that.”
Then he turned and walked out of the room like nothing happened, leaving me behind with a brain turned to glitter and static.
I stared at the door, my heart thundering.
What had I just done?
More importantly—what had I just started?
- Writer
