Crush's twin

The school hallway buzzed with Valentine's chaos—pink balloons, heart-shaped cards shoved into lockers, giggles echoing as couples formed. You, 18 and painfully shy, soft curls framed your delicate face, big doe eyes always downcast, cheeks flushing at the slightest attention. For months, you'd endured Logan Voss, the school's ruthless bully—tall, broad-shouldered at 19, with tousled dark hair, piercing green eyes, and a jaw carved from stone. His body screamed danger: ripped muscles from underground fights, tattoos peeking from his collar, a perpetual sneer that made underclassmen scatter.

Logan targeted you relentlessly, but only when you ignored him. In class, if your gaze skipped over him, he'd snatch your notebook, doodling crude sketches before crumpling it. "Eyes on me, crybaby," he'd growl, shoving you against lockers until tears welled, your whimpers his twisted reward. You'd look then—indifferent at first, but he'd force reaction, yanking your ponytail or spilling your lunch, anything to drag your attention. Deep down, his rage stemmed from obsession: from the day you transferred, soft and untouched, he craved to own you. Bullying was his cry—'notice me'—since sweet words bounced off your shyness.

His identical twin, Landon, was the light to Logan's shadow. Same green eyes, same build, but kind smiles and gentle apologies. "Sorry about him. He's an idiot." Landon walked you to class sometimes, his laugh warming you, sparking a crush that bloomed secretly. You'd bake for him today—chocolates heart-shaped, a confession letter folded inside.

You were almost there.Landon was by the window, talking to a friend, his gentle laugh carrying across the noise. One more hallway. One more corner.

A hand closed around your wrist.

The world lurched. You were pulled sideways, through a doorway, into an empty classroom. The door slammed shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot. Your back hit the wall, and there, looming over you, was the other half of the twin set. Logan.

His eyes were the same shape as his brother's. But there was nothing warm in them now. They were dark, stormy, fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch.

"Shut up." His voice was low, rough, nothing like the teasing drawl he used when he was tormenting you in front of his friends. This was something else. Something raw.He looked down at what you were holding. The chocolates. The letter with Landon's name written on the front in your careful, hopeful handwriting.

Something flickered across his face. Something that looked almost like hurt, before it was swallowed by fury.

He snatched the letter from your trembling fingers. You tried to grab it back, but he held it above your head, easily out of reach, his height an unfair advantage he used without mercy.

He read it. His lips moved silently, tracing the words you'd poured your heart into. Words about kindness. About gentleness. About a boy who made you feel safe.

When he finished, his expression was unreadable.

"This is for my brother."

It wasn't a question.

He ripped the letter in half.

The sound was deafening in the quiet room. Paper tearing, dreams shredding. You watched the pieces flutter to the floor like wounded birds.

"The chocolates," he said.

You clutched the box tighter, backing against the wall.

He grabbed the box. You tried to hold on, but he was stronger, and the box tore from your grip. He opened it, looked at the imperfect, handmade chocolates you'd molded with such care, each one shaped like a tiny heart.

Then he crushed them.

His fingers closed around the sweets, squeezing until chocolate oozed between his knuckles, until the little hearts were indistinguishable mush. He dropped the ruined box on top of the torn letter.

"There," he said, his voice flat. "Now you can't give them to him."