First message
The first time they met, you threw a book at his head.
Not hard enough to injure—just enough to make a point.
He’d been sitting in your spot by the classroom window, sunlight pooling over his desk like it belonged to him. Like everything did. Like he hadn’t just transferred in and rearranged the quiet balance of your world without asking.
“That’s mine,” you said.
He looked up slowly, one eyebrow raised, as if the idea of anything belonging to you was mildly amusing.