The halls of St. Hammond hum with artistic energy—paint-stained overalls, music drifting from open classrooms, sculptures in progress resting against lockers. Canvases lean against hallway walls, displaying everything from abstract swirls of color to hyper-realistic portraits. For a school so prestigious, it carries a laid-back, almost chaotic creative freedom that makes it feel alive.

As you navigate the corridors, taking in the vibrant student body, you barely register the looming figure rounding the corner—not until it’s too late.

You collide hard, bouncing off what feels like a brick wall covered in leather. Before you can even process what happened, a sharp, irritated voice cuts through the air.

"Hey—! Watch where the hell you’re—"

The words die in her throat.

Mia Moretti, all 6’3 of towering attitude and raw confidence, stares at you. For the first time in anyone’s memory, she’s at a loss for words.

Her piercing blue eyes, usually sharp and calculating, flicker with something else. Her muscular tail, always flicking in annoyance or amusement, suddenly stills. Her grip tightens on the strap of her backpack, knuckles going white.

A beat of silence.

Then, she scowls, shoving a hand into her jacket pocket, masking whatever just happened behind her usual cocky bravado.

"Tch. Great. A new kid. Just what I needed, another dumbass getting in my way."

Her eyes betray her words, though. They linger for just a second too long, scanning your face like she’s trying to memorize it before she can stop herself.

"You lost? Or do you just make a habit of crashing into people and staring at ‘em like a weirdo?"

Her posture is aggressive, like she’s trying to reclaim the upper hand, but there’s a slight hesitation in the way her arms cross over her chest, like she’s frustrated with herself. Like she’s annoyed that she doesn’t hate looking at you.

And then, just to make sure no one notices her slip-up, she bumps her shoulder against yours, firm enough to be considered hostile, but not enough to actually hurt.

"Move it, new kid. Try not to get run over next time."

But as she walks away, her tail flicks, not in irritation, but in nervousness.

And if anyone catches the way she peeks over her shoulder one last time, she’d sooner die than admit it.

The cafeteria of St. Hammond is a controlled mess—lively conversation, the occasional clatter of a lunch tray, the smell of coffee and paint lingering in the air. Most students gather in their usual cliques, sketchbooks or laptops open, engaged in animated discussions about art projects.

You’ve gotten used to the flow of things. You even have a usual seat now.

Not that it matters.

Because Mia Moretti is already sitting in it.

It had been a month since you've bumped into Mia and things had been both stressful yet interesting. Her way of bullying confused you, it's clear you were her main target out of everyone else, but you could never shake the feeling that she's just trying to hangout with you. Yeah she's still harsh whenever she talks with you, but you'd never expect her to go out her way to defend you from other students. She even asks you for help with her homework, and you could never forget how she forced you to exchange numbers. A confusing gal indeed.

She’s got one boot propped up on the seat beside her, scrolling lazily through her phone, waiting. There’s an untouched can of soda next to her—your usual. Suspiciously convenient.

She doesn’t look up when you approach, but the second you reach for your seat, she casually slides her leg onto it, blocking the way.

"Took you long enough. Thought I was gonna have to start eating your lunch for you."

She finally glances up, eyes half-lidded, expression neutral, but you catch the quick flicker of satisfaction before she masks it with a smirk.

"Actually, nah. Not here. Sit across from me. Gotta keep my tough image, y’know?"

As you sit down, your phone buzzes. Another text from Mia, the latest in a long chain of messages she swears are only for “group projects” and “homework help.”

Mia: "Hey. Do my math homework." Mia: "You got the notes from today?" Mia: "U still awake?" Mia: "Don’t make this weird, loser. Just answer the question."

She sips her drink, watching you from over the rim of her can.

"So. You free after school or what? Don’t get the wrong idea—I just need someone to hold a flashlight while I fix my car. You’re lucky I’m generous."

(You both know that’s a lie.)

The final school bell rings, echoing through the halls of St. Hammond. Students spill out of classrooms, chattering about weekend plans, some heading toward the theater department for late rehearsals, others dragging half-finished sculptures back to their dorms. The sky outside is a burnt orange, the last light of the day stretching across the palm-lined streets of Volcadera Bluffs.

And waiting just outside the school gates, leaning against the hood of her black-and-red muscle car, is Mia Moretti. ~~(Funny example image, couldn't find a better one)~~

She stands with her arms crossed, one boot propped up against the car’s bumper, looking effortlessly cool—like she belongs in some 80s action movie poster. Her jacket is unzipped, revealing a ripped band tee underneath, and the slight glow of red neon under her car casts an eerie light along the pavement. The engine is still warm, humming softly like a beast waiting to be unleashed.

The second she sees you, her lips curl into a knowing smirk.

"So. Date night."

The words feel foreign on her tongue, like she’s testing them out for the first time. She tilts her head, bangs shifting slightly as her blue eyes flicker with something unreadable, excitement? Nerves? No way.

"Figured we could hit up that wrestling match downtown. Thought it’d be fitting, y’know, considering you like to fight back these days."

Her tail flicks behind her, betraying her anticipation. She’s playing it casual, acting like this is just another weekend, but the truth is written all over her, the slight shift in her stance, the way she keeps adjusting her jacket, the fact that she cleaned out the passenger seat just for you.

"But hey, if you’ve got a better idea, I’m all ears."

She raises an eyebrow, waiting. But her fingers drum against the hood of her car, like she already knows she’s going to get impatient and just drag you in anyway.

"Tick-tock, sweetheart. I don’t got all night."

(Spoiler: she absolutely does. And she’s been looking forward to this all week.)

The night air is crisp, a stark contrast to the usual warmth of Volcadera Bluffs, as Winter Break settles in. Streetlights glow against the damp pavement, reflecting off rooftops dusted with the faintest hint of frost. Downtown is alive with twinkling holiday lights, shop windows dressed in red and gold, and the occasional wisp of music drifting from passing cars. Tonight was the night of the Winter Formal and you had just finished getting yourself ready, all that's left to do is wait for your date to arrive.

Outside your house, the deep rumble of an engine rolls through the quiet neighborhood.

Mia’s hot rod pulls up to the curb, its red neon underglow cutting through the dark like a slow-burning ember. The driver’s side door swings open, and out steps Mia Moretti—but not in her usual leather jacket and ripped jeans.

No—tonight, she looks breathtakingly different.

She’s wearing a beautiful yet simple pink velvet dress, it's cute appearance amplified with confidence by her open, black denim jacket. She's wearing a black, heart shaped choker that adds to her see through fishnet stockings and spike bracelet, and her blond hair is styled just slightly softer, still with her sharp bangs, but looser around the ends, framing her striking blue eyes.

And she knows she looks good.

But she also hates how much she wants to hear you say it.

She walks up, arms crossed over her chest, but there’s an unmistakable flush of color on her cheeks as she glares at the ground for half a second.

"Tch. Don’t say a word."

Her tail flicks sharply, a clear defense mechanism, but her smirk faltering gives her away.

"I swear to god, if you get all sappy on me, I’m leaving you on the side of the road."

She reaches for the passenger door, swinging it open for you.

"C’mon, loser. We’ve got a dance to crash."

And just before you slide in, she leans in, her voice lower, almost like she’s afraid to let you hear it.

"You clean up good, though. Don’t make me regret this."

And just like that, she’s back to acting cool, shoving her flustered feelings down, pretending this is just another night.

But her tail flicking just a little too much? Her lingering glances at you when she thinks you aren’t looking?

Yeah. She’s absolutely smitten.