HOW TO HIDE YOUR BLUSHES

THE GIRL WHO DOESN'T BLUSH Eden Wren was nine years old the first time she was told to control her face. It was a Tuesday—court day. Her mother, Marissa Wren, had taken her to the courthouse because the babysitter had canceled and “sentimentality was for soft people.” Eden wore an itchy gray blazer that made her arms feel stiff, like they weren’t hers, and sat outside the courtroom on a cold bench for four hours while her mother argued cases with the precision of a scalpel. When the trial ended and the doors swung open, Marissa swept out like a force of nature—heels sharp, lipstick sharper—and sat beside Eden with a sigh. Then, almost absently, she turned to her daughter and said, “You blinked too much when he walked by. Next time, keep your face still. No one trusts a girl who blushes easily.” Eden didn’t fully understand what it meant then. But she remembered how Marissa’s tone made her spine straighten. How the weight of being “watched” suddenly clicked into place. She never forgot that feeling. It lived inside her ribs and whispered during math presentations and hallway crushes and cafeteria stares. By the time Eden was sixteen, she had perfected the art of emotional stillness. Her face was a mask of calm, her posture elegant but guarded. She’d taught herself how to breathe evenly, how to let silence answer questions, how to make other people flinch first. And most of all, she had never—not once—blushed. Northview Academy sat like a glass-and-stone crown in the middle of Westlake City, an exclusive high school for the academic elite and the socially invincible. It had ivy-wrapped pillars and glossy, echoing hallways. It had Latin mottos carved above doors no one read and a student council that behaved like they were running the country. Eden had earned her place there through near-perfect grades, endless after-school clubs, and summer programs most kids couldn’t afford unless they knew someone with a yacht. Her mother didn’t know anyone with a yacht—but she knew how to negotiate tuition discounts with a ruthless smile. By junior year, Eden was one of the top students in her class. She floated above most school drama like smoke—visible, but unreachable. Her reputation wasn’t mean or stuck-up, just... chilly. Icy calm. Unbothered. She was the girl who didn’t get flustered. Who didn’t have messy relationships. Who didn’t care what people said in whispered circles. But she did have friends—two, in particular, who refused to let her stay emotionally dead for long. Zoey Park was a walking exclamation mark. Hair dyed pink last semester, honey-blonde now. She cried over book endings and fell in love with fictional boys weekly. Her voice carried from three hallways away, and she had made it her mission to make Eden “feel things.” Jade Reyes was the opposite. Dark hair, darker humor, and a glare sharp enough to stop gossip mid-sentence. She and Eden had met in detention in sophomore year and bonded over their mutual hatred of cafeteria chili. “We’re your emotional support disasters,” Zoey would often joke. “You’re welcome.” Eden tolerated their chaos. Secretly, she liked it. Still, even surrounded by Zoey’s stories and Jade’s sarcasm, Eden felt... safe in control. Until he walked into her life. It was a Monday morning when the universe decided to test her. Second-period literature class. Eden sat in her usual seat by the window, her annotated copy of Wuthering Heights opened neatly in front of her, when the classroom door creaked open and Ms. Hargrove stepped in, followed by a stranger. “This is Aiden Cross,” the teacher announced. “He’s a senior from Westlake University and will be joining us for the semester as part of our mentorship program. He’ll be helping with your literary analysis presentations.” Eden blinked once. The stranger—Aiden—was not what she expected. No awkward grad student energy. No dull khakis or nervous smiles. Instead, he was... tall, annoyingly good-looking, and smirking. He had on a dark green cardigan, rumpled like he’d slept in it, and a leather-bound notebook tucked under one arm. “Hey,” he said casually, with the confidence of someone used to getting away with things. The girls near the front row practically sighed in unison. Even Zoey muttered a dreamy, “Wow.” Eden didn’t say anything. But her fingers tightened around her pencil. Aiden’s gaze skimmed across the class, lingering only a second on each face—until it landed on her. For just a flicker, his eyebrows lifted in mild interest. Then he smirked again and looked away. Ms. Hargrove assigned him to assist with group projects and peer reviews. “Great,” Jade muttered under her breath. “A glorified babysitter with cheekbones.” Eden, for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, didn’t respond. Their first real interaction happened two days later. The class had broken into groups, and Ms. Hargrove sent Aiden over to help Eden’s team work through their presentation on tragic romantic archetypes. Zoey gushed. Jade rolled her eyes. And Eden... kept her eyes on her notes. “Alright,” Aiden said, pulling up a chair like he belonged there. “Let’s talk tragedy.” His voice was low and amused, like he found the topic entertaining. He leaned forward, glancing over Eden’s notes. “You’ve got Heathcliff listed as both a villain and a romantic hero. Bold.” Eden finally looked up. “He’s both. That’s the point.” Aiden grinned. “Or maybe he’s just emotionally constipated and no one called him out on it.” Zoey snorted. “Oh my god, thank you!” Eden narrowed her eyes. “Heathcliff’s complexity is what makes him tragic.” Aiden tilted his head. “Is that complexity or just toxic behavior with good branding?” Eden didn’t blink. “Some people don’t wear their hearts on their sleeves. Doesn’t make their emotions less valid.” Aiden stared at her for a beat. “Touché.” Something flickered in his eyes then. Not mockery. Not challenge. Interest. Eden’s stomach did something weird—like a flip she wasn’t prepared for. She ignored it. The worst part wasn’t that he challenged her. It was that he made her want to respond. That his teasing felt more like a secret language than a confrontation. That his eyes were watching, and when he looked at her too long, she could feel her pulse hammering under her skin. It happened the following week. He stopped her after class in the hallway. “Hey, Wren,” he said, falling into step beside her. “You always this intense about doomed love stories?” She didn’t look at him. “You always this annoying?” Aiden laughed. “Sometimes. But you’re the first to call me out so efficiently.” Eden paused. “Why do you care?” Aiden leaned slightly closer. “Because you never react like everyone else. You don’t fidget. You don’t giggle. You don’t even blush.” Her throat tightened. She turned to face him fully—and that was her mistake. Because he was too close. And his eyes were too dark. And the words you don’t even blush echoed in her ears like a dare. Her body betrayed her. Just for a second. A rush of heat colored her cheeks. Aiden’s eyes widened, then sparkled with delight. Eden spun on her heel and walked away. Behind her, she heard him call, “Was that a blush? I feel honored!” Later, in the girl’s restroom, Eden stared into the mirror, palms pressed to the cold porcelain sink. She’d slipped. Cracked. Let emotion crawl across her skin and announce itself in color. She hated that. She hated him for seeing it. But even as she replayed the moment, she couldn’t shake the warmth in her chest. The way his voice had dropped, just a little. The way he had looked at her—not like she was some emotionless ice queen, but like he was intrigued. That was the worst part. She didn’t just blush. She wanted to.