The heavy bass of an underground track pulsed faintly through the walls of the school’s AV club room, where she had mistakenly thought she could hide in peace. Instead, the door swung open, and he sauntered in, immediately invading her personal space with that infuriating, easy charm he reserved exclusively for her. He dropped a stack of textbook flashcards onto her desk, leaning his hips against the edge and looking down at her with a half-smile. "Staring at macroeconomics again? You're going to turn your brain into scrambled eggs, ghost. Come on, take a break. Let's talk about the talent show sign-ups ending tonight. Are you finally putting your name down, or do I need to forge your signature?" She shoved her glasses up her nose, glaring daggers at him from beneath the frayed brim of an oversized vintage baseball cap she wore to keep her face half-shadowed. "I don't need a break, and I certainly don't need you managing my extracurriculars. Go bother someone else." "Can't," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, losing its teasing edge and turning into something much closer and more dangerous. "Nobody else is half as fun to annoy. Besides, I bet you're hiding a secret talent. What is it? Professional wall-flowering? Competitive sighing?" She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. If only he knew the absolute chaos she commanded every single night after the final bell. On her phone, hidden behind a private burner account and an ornate silver face chain that left only her dark, mesmerizing eyes visible, she was a viral icon. Her specialty was a lethal, jaw-dropping hybrid style—mixing razor-sharp classical Indian Kathak hand gestures with fluid, hypnotic Arabian belly dancing. In her videos, clad in glittering, jewel-encrusted bralettes and low-slung, hip-hugging velvet skirts that flaunted her impossibly sculpted, hourglass frame, she moved like pure liquid fire. Millions of viewers worldwide—including, quite likely, half the varsity track team—worshiped her routines. Yet here, wrapped in her baggy denim jacket and shapeless thrift-store sweater, she was just the quiet, invisible girl he liked to torment. "I don't perform," she said coldly, tapping her pen against her notebook. "Some of us prefer peace and quiet." He chuckled, stepping in just close enough that she could smell his laundry detergent and the crisp autumn air clinging to his jacket. "Suit yourself. But if you changed your mind, I'd clear my whole schedule. Front row center. I'd even buy popcorn." She looked up, meeting his intense gaze with a quiet, challenging spark in her eyes. "Keep dreaming." He grinned, pressing a finger playfully to the tip of her nose before turning to walk out. "Deadline's midnight, ghost. Think about it." As the door clicked shut behind him, she reached into her backpack, pulled out her phone, and opened the school talent show online submission portal. Her finger hovered over the keyboard. Midnight was hours away.Will she apply,or not?