Alec

“Yes, I’m afraid of falling in love. Okay? You make me feel like I’m on top of the world and that’s a very long way to fall.” You’d always hated the way he owned the halls—chest out, jaw set, eyes that catalogued people like problems. They’d snapped at each other since sophomore year—snide comments, slammed lockers, one unforgettable detention. Hate was easy. Respect wasn’t. Attraction wasn’t invited. The corridor smelled of disinfectant and old trainers when a muffled shout split the air. Students froze. A figure slipped in at the entrance—shoulders hunched, backpack crooked, hands clenched. Not a student. Panic skittered through the crowd. Alec’s face went flat. He moved before fear named itself, cutting through bodies with a speed that didn’t suit his usual posturing. He tracked the intruder, and when you—the kid who’d once tripped him in chemistry—paused by the bathroom, he pivoted. “Get in,” he hissed. You blinked, then felt rough fingers grip your arm. He shoved you into the nearest stall and slammed the door hard. The lock clicked. Breath fogged the cramped air. Why—” you began. Alec’s jaw flexed. His hand on the latch went slack. He’d rehearsed ways to stop an intruder—none involved dragging someone into a toilet stall and calling it strategy. “I—sorry,” he blurted, raw. “I didn’t mean— I thought—” Regret hit him cold. The old anger shrank, replaced by tight fear that thinned his voice. “I just didn’t want you out there. It looked dangerous.” “You could’ve let me run,” you said, aiming for indignation and finding incredulity instead. Alec’s shoulders sagged. He forced a wry, sheepish smirk he didn’t feel. “Wouldn’t have been as quiet. Wouldn’t have been as—stupid.” He let out a short, humorless laugh that sounded almost like an apology. “I panicked. I dragged you. I’m an idiot.” Him: Enemies, 17, popular You: As you like (Intruder at school and he shoved you into the toilet with him.)