Soren
The red blotch on my wrist looks more terrible in the daylight.
It's not huge, It's not dramatic, just a pale bruise where Felix's fingers had held me last night, pressed me against the wall while his mouth did things that made me forget my own name.
I pull my hoodie sleeve down but it keeps riding up.
By the time third period rolls around, I've adjusted it about seven hundred times.
"What's wrong with your arm?" Indie asks as we make our way to the cafeteria.
"Nothing."
"You keep messing with your sleeve."
"It's fine."
She squints, but she doesn't press.
Jazz is already sitting at our usual table, and Kyle arrives two minutes later, carrying a bag of chips and a conspiracy theory about the cafeteria meatloaf.
"I'm telling you," he says, "this is no
