Literature class passes by in the scratch of awkward pencil strokes and stolen glances, mostly by me. It’s not like I want him to look at me or whatever, and as I said—he looks the part of the devil incarnate, and it’s in my best interest to stay away. But there’s something about the quietness, the heavy stillness of the room, that makes my skin itch. Maybe that’s why I keep looking from the corner of my eye.

“Erwin. Start reading from the next line.”

I practically jump in my seat, broken out of my stupor. I frantically fidget with the frayed edges of my book's pages, my heart doing a sudden gym routine. 12, 13, 14… when did she reach 16? I think, my eyes darting to catch a peek at the desk in front of me.

“16, line 135,” a low voice whispers.

The sudden shift of his chair makes my shoulder tense as he leans in.

Musk.

He smells like aqua and… musk. Why does a high schooler smell like-

Focus, Erwin.

“Is to come fairly off from the great debts / Wherein my time, something too prodigal…” 

I begin to read. Even though my eyes follow the harsh black print, my chest is tight with that suffocating feeling again.

What’s happening? And what’s with this guy trying to get on my nerves?

This dark-haired, dark-eyed devil.

God, I need some air.

RIIING. The shrill scream of the bell grants me bail from this suffocating prison. I shove my books into my bag so fast I almost catch my thumb in the zipper. Soon, my legs take me away, the squeak of sneakers in the hallway washing over me like a relief. What a day. 

What. A. Day.

“Erwieee, here’s your form!” Shay pops into my line of vision, waving a crisp piece of paper in my face. It's full of contact details to be filled out, with the Writers’ Club logo stamped on the top right corner.

“Deadline?” I ask, hoping it isn’t today. My social battery is flashing red, and I'm already missing my bed and my books. And those potato crisps. Sooo tired.

“Tomorrow. But it’s better if you come with me right now, they’re having a meeting about it,” she quips, grabbing my sleeve.

“What about classes?” I try, a last futile attempt at escape. Please. I wanna go back early. Usually, I love the club, its peace and quiet, but some devil soured my mood today.

“It’s fine, I’ve already informed your homeroom teacher.”

Yay. So much for resistance. And so, I’m dragged down the hall to the meeting room.

The heavy wooden door creaks as I push it open, and the familiar scent of old paper and dust immediately greets me. Sunlight pours in from the tall windows at the other end, painting the dust motes and the whole room in a warm, golden hue. I drop my bag onto a desk with a soft thump.

I did… miss this. Maybe it wasn’t a bad idea coming in today.

I smile to myself, pulling out my battered, leather-bound notebook. My brain is already melting into this cozy space, darting from one thought to the next as we wait for the other members. Should I submit one of my short stories? Or start a new novella?

CLICK.

The brass handle of the door turns. The door shifts open, revealing a familiar face leaning against the frame.

No. Way.

My grip on my notebook tightens. This guy, of all people? Why is he in my vicinity again? And here I thought I was done admiring his mug for the day.

Just my luck.

Just as I’m thinking this couldn’t get any worse, he takes a seat next to me, rubbing salt on my wounds.

Great.

Now I have to sit next to Mr Delinquent. Again. 

I look at the form in my hands, all crinkled now. Shouldn’t have taken it out on innocent paper. I fill in the details, trying my best to distract myself from this situation, to focus on the meeting, being quieter than usual.

The club president, a senior with entirely too much enthusiasm for a Monday, starts droning on about word counts and submission guidelines. I nod along, pretending to take notes, but my pen is just hovering over the paper.

I can’t focus. 

Not with him sitting so close.

Every time he shifts his weight, his knee brushes against my chair. The scent of that damn aqua musk is almost entirely drowning out the comforting smell of old paper. It’s too warm in here. The sunlight that felt so cozy five minutes ago now feels like a spotlight, scorching and hot.

Just breathe. Look at the board. Ignore the devil next to you.

But my chest is doing that awful, familiar tightening thing. The edges of my vision start to blur, the president’s voice fading into a dull, distant hum. 

“And you must prepare for it on your own. I know AI is all the rage these days, but it must be human-written. AI-assisted isn’t allowed either, for… “ what is he- AI? Yeah. AI is bad. I shouldn’t… ouch. My head throbs. My fingers tremble around my pen, sweat adding to the dread in me.

No. Not here. Please, not in front of everyone. And not next to him. I told Shay I was getting better, I- 

I abruptly shove my chair back. It screeches against the floorboards, loud enough to cut off the president mid-sentence. Every head in the room snaps toward me. Including his.

“I—um. Bathroom. Sorry,” I choke out.

I don’t wait for Shay’s concerned whisper. I blindly grab my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and practically sprint for the door. I shove it open and stumble out into the empty hallway, the heavy wood slamming shut behind me with a final, echoing THUD.

Cold air.

I lean my back against the icy metal of the lockers and slide down until I hit the floor. I pull my knees to my chest, burying my face in my arms, taking sharp, jagged gasps of air.

Get a grip. It’s just a guy. It’s just a stupid panic attack. You’ve had worse… Get a grip, Erwin. 

Slowly, the frantic beating of my heart starts to steady against the cold metal at my back. I’m just starting to pull myself together when I hear the heavy club door creak open again.

Followed by slow, deliberate footsteps.

I freeze, praying to whatever higher power may or may not exist that it's Shay, coming to check on me.

“‘This ink on my paper, elixir for creation of entire worlds, my passion for words, now competes against… “

No... That’s not Shay’s voice.

“‘... the ink on my wrist, more crimson than black, thicker than pen-pigment, another elixir for creation, or for nought.’”

I look up. 

Dark eyes, and dark hair. 

Standing there in the empty corridor, looking down at me, is the delinquent. The smirk is completely gone from his face. In its place lies something akin to concern in his eyes, and in his hands, open to the very last page, is my battered, leather-bound notebook.

The one I left on the desk.

“I’m Jay. Wanna grab some coffee?”