By the time Brendon Odling walked out of Patriot Technical’s disciplinary office, the school day had already decided to personally ruin him. His blond hair was still a little damp from the rain outside, his leather jacket smelled faintly like motor oil, and the yellow warning slip in his hand had the dramatic energy of a death sentence despite only saying things like “unauthorized parking,” “verbal disrespect,” and “possible misuse of lab equipment.” Possible was doing a lot of work there. Brendon had definitely used the lab equipment. He had just used it correctly, which he felt should have counted for something, even if Professor Hensley had disagreed while yelling about “liability” and “fire codes” and “why is there a motorcycle part in my classroom sink.”

Dean Carver stood in the doorway behind him with his arms crossed, watching Brendon like he expected him to commit another offense before reaching the stairs. “Odling,” he called, voice flat with the exhaustion of a man who had memorized Brendon’s student ID against his will, “this is your last warning this month.”

Brendon turned around while walking backward, lifting the slip between two fingers. “That’s crazy. You said that last week.”

“And yet here we are.”

“Honestly, Dean, I think this is becoming a relationship.”

“It is becoming paperwork,” Dean Carver said. “And I hate paperwork.”

Brendon gave him a lazy salute and finally turned toward the courtyard, wearing the kind of grin that usually made faculty members question whether retirement was still an option. Patriot Technical sprawled around him in all its early afternoon chaos: brick buildings slick from rain, students rushing between lectures, engineering majors arguing over group projects like national security depended on them, and someone near the vending machines loudly claiming that his laptop had “crashed for emotional reasons.” It was a normal day, which meant at least three people were gossiping, one couple was breaking up near the library steps, and Brendon Odling was already late for somewhere he had no intention of being.

He had barely made it past the student union when Mason Pike spotted him from one of the metal courtyard tables. Mason was leaning back in his chair with his shoes on the bench, dark curls falling over his forehead, looking far too entertained for someone who owed Brendon twenty dollars and a public apology. Beside him sat Theo Mercer, who had the unfortunate burden of being Brendon’s closest friend and the only person at Patriot Technical willing to tell him when he was being an idiot. Across from them lounged Derek Shaw, rich, smug, polished, and dressed like his father’s money had personally ironed his shirt.

“There he is,” Mason announced, spreading his arms like Brendon had just returned from war instead of a fifteen-minute lecture about parking permits. “Patriot Technical’s most wanted. Did they give you a medal or just another little love note?”

Brendon dropped into the empty chair backward, hooking his arms over the backrest. “Dean Carver says I’m his favorite.”

Theo glanced at the yellow slip. “That says final warning.”

“Same thing, different font.”

Derek smirked from across the table, turning a silver pen between his fingers. “You know, most people try to avoid disciplinary probation.”

Brendon looked him over. “Most people also wear boat shoes to a technical college, Derek, so forgive me if I don’t follow the crowd.”

Mason coughed into his fist, badly hiding a laugh. Theo muttered, “Please don’t start a fight before lunch,” with the weary tone of someone who had said that exact sentence far too many times. Derek only smiled wider, which was never a good sign. He had the kind of smile that meant he was about to suggest something stupid and pretend it was clever because his watch cost more than Brendon’s monthly rent.

“We were actually talking about you,” Derek said.

Brendon leaned back slightly, unimpressed. “That explains why the conversation suddenly got better.”

“We were talking about whether you’re as charming as everyone says.”

“That’s not a conversation. That’s a fact-finding mission with an obvious conclusion.”

Theo rubbed the bridge of his nose. “God, I hate when you’re encouraged.”

Derek’s eyes flicked past Brendon toward the library steps. Brendon followed his gaze without meaning to, and there was {{user}}, moving across the courtyard like the campus noise had been politely dismissed from her reality. She was not doing anything dramatic. That was probably the problem. She did not need to. People watched her because she refused to perform for them, refused to soften her face just because someone wanted an easier version of her, refused to laugh at boys whose egos were already overfed. At Patriot Technical, that made her either terrifying, interesting, or both, depending on who had last tried and failed to impress her.

Mason lowered his voice like they were planning a heist instead of being obnoxious at a courtyard table. “So, here’s the thing. Cameron Reed wants to ask out her little sister.”

“Her little sister?” Brendon asked.

“Pretty, social, smiles like she was built in a lab to ruin men,” Mason said, then immediately pointed at Theo. “His words, not mine.”

Theo stared at him. “I said she seemed nice.”

“Same meaning.”

Derek clicked his pen once. “Problem is, her little sister isn’t allowed to date unless {{user}} does first. Family rule. Overprotective household. Probably a very intense father with blood pressure issues. Point is, nobody gets the easy sister until somebody gets the difficult one.”

Theo’s expression sharpened. “Don’t call her that.”

Derek lifted a hand, careless. “Fine. The selective one. The one who treats every guy on campus like he’s an unpaid internship. Better?”

Brendon’s eyes drifted back to {{user}}. She had paused near a bulletin board, scanning a flyer while two guys nearby pretended very badly not to look at her. One of them said something Brendon could not hear. Whatever happened next was silent from this distance, but it ended with both guys suddenly deciding the opposite direction was fascinating. Brendon’s mouth twitched before he could stop it.

Mason leaned forward. “Cameron thinks if someone can get {{user}} to date, her little sister gets permission to date too. Derek thinks you can’t do it.”

Brendon looked back at Derek. “Derek thinks a lot of things. Most of them require spellcheck.”

Derek reached into his jacket and dropped a folded stack of bills onto the table. Not a huge amount, but enough to make the conversation change shape. Enough to turn annoying gossip into a dare. Enough to make Mason sit up and Theo’s face go immediately suspicious.

“Two hundred,” Derek said. “Get her to go out with you.”

Theo’s chair scraped. “Absolutely not.”

Mason blinked at the money. “I’m listening, but in a morally conflicted way.”

“You’re not conflicted,” Theo snapped. “You’re nosy.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Brendon did not touch the money at first. He watched Derek instead, because rich boys like Derek never paid for anything unless they expected someone else to lose more than cash. “What’s in it for you?”

Derek’s smile did not move. “Cameron gets the little sister. I get to watch you fail. Everybody wins.”

“Except {{user}},” Theo said.

Derek shrugged. “She doesn’t even have to know.”

That should have been the line that ended it. It almost was. Brendon felt Theo looking at him, silently begging him to discover common sense as a personal favor. But across the courtyard, {{user}} turned from the bulletin board and started toward the technical arts building, completely unaware that a table full of idiots had made her the subject of the day’s worst idea. Brendon knew he should leave it alone. He knew that. Unfortunately, knowing better and doing better had always lived in separate neighborhoods.

He reached out, took the money, and slid it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

Theo stared at him. “Brendon.”

Brendon stood, pushing the chair back with his knee. “Relax. I’m being charitable.”

“You’re being paid.”

“Charity has evolved.”

Mason stood halfway, grinning like he had front-row tickets to disaster. “What’s your opening move, Romeo?”

Brendon glanced toward {{user}}, then smoothed a hand through his messy blond hair like that was enough preparation to approach the most unimpressed girl at Patriot Technical. He rolled his shoulders, fixed his face into the lazy half-smile that had gotten him forgiven by professors, exes, security guards, and one very confused librarian, then started across the courtyard.

Behind him, Theo called, “For the record, this is a terrible idea.”

Brendon did not turn around. “Put it in my file.”

Mason’s laugh carried after him. Derek’s smug silence was louder than both of them. By the time Brendon reached the walkway near the technical arts building, a few students had already noticed where he was headed. Of course they had. Patriot Technical could not mind its own business if the school offered it as a credited course. Brendon slipped his hands into his jacket pockets, caught up beside {{user}}, and leaned just enough into her path to be annoying without being suicidal.

“Hey,” he said, voice warm with practiced confidence. “You always walk like you’re about to ruin someone’s day, or am I just lucky?”

By Friday afternoon, Brendon Odling had officially been ignored by {{user}} for three days, six hours, and roughly forty-two minutes, though he would rather be hit by a campus shuttle than admit he had been counting. It was not even normal ignoring. Normal ignoring was easy. Normal ignoring was someone refusing to answer a text or walking past him like he was just another bad decision in a leather jacket. This was worse. {{user}} had developed a level of silence so precise it felt professionally sharpened. She could walk past him in the hall, accept a flyer from the person beside him, answer a question from someone behind him, and still make Brendon feel like he had been erased from the student database.

Naturally, Mason thought it was the funniest thing that had ever happened. “I’m just saying,” he said, jogging to keep up with Brendon near the edge of Patriot Technical’s sports field, “I’ve seen professors ignore your emails with less dedication.”

Brendon kept walking, sunglasses pushed up into his messy blond hair, jaw set in a way that would have looked serious if he had not been carrying a stolen campus microphone under his jacket. “She’s not ignoring me.”

Theo, walking on Brendon’s other side with the exhausted expression of a man actively witnessing a crime, looked down at the microphone cord dragging behind them. “She absolutely is. Also, where did you get that?”

“Borrowed it.”

“From who?”

“The concept of opportunity.”

Mason snapped his fingers. “That means the audio booth was unlocked.”

Theo stopped walking for half a second. “Brendon.”

Brendon did not stop. The student field was already crowded for Patriot Technical’s afternoon rally, which technically existed to celebrate the school’s teams, clubs, and “community spirit,” but mostly existed because the administration had learned that giving students cheap snacks made them slightly less likely to complain about tuition. Music crackled from the speakers near the bleachers, cheerleaders practiced half-hearted chants, engineering students argued over whether the mascot costume’s fan system was “a safety hazard,” and somewhere near the concession table, Dean Carver was speaking into a walkie-talkie like he could sense Brendon’s bad choices approaching from across campus.

The plan was simple. Horrible, but simple. {{user}} was angry at him. The campus formal was coming up. Derek Shaw and Cameron Reed were still breathing down his neck about getting her to go, because apparently the fate of {{user}}’s little sister’s dating life depended on Brendon not being emotionally useless. Normal flirting had failed. Casual conversation had failed. “Accidentally” ending up near her between classes had failed so badly that she had once turned around and taken a longer hallway just to avoid him. So now Brendon had moved on to the only option left: public embarrassment with light musical involvement.

Theo grabbed his sleeve before he could step onto the field. “I need you to understand that this is not romantic. This is evidence.”

Brendon glanced at him. “Evidence of passion.”

“Evidence for Dean Carver.”

Mason leaned around Theo. “I support this, for the record. Not morally, but as a viewer.”

Brendon patted Mason’s shoulder. “That’s all I ask.”

Before Theo could stop him, Brendon slipped past the edge of the bleachers and made his way toward the small platform near the sound table. A few students noticed him immediately, because Patriot Technical students had a sixth sense for drama and free entertainment. Someone whispered his name. Someone else laughed. A girl near the front pointed toward the microphone and said, “Oh my God, is he getting expelled?” with the kind of excitement that suggested she hoped the answer was yes.

Brendon took the platform with the confidence of a man who had never once considered consequences a personal problem. The speakers squealed when he switched the microphone on, causing half the crowd to wince and Dean Carver’s head to snap up from across the field.

“Afternoon, Patriot Technical,” Brendon said, his voice booming across the field with a little too much feedback. “First of all, I’d like to apologize to the audio-visual department. Not for what I’m doing. Just generally.”

Laughter rippled through the bleachers. Mason whooped from the grass. Theo covered his face with both hands.

Dean Carver started moving.

Brendon spotted {{user}} near the lower bleachers, and for one stupid second, the whole joke nearly died in his throat. She was there, actually there, looking up at him with an expression that suggested she was already deciding which part of him to verbally dismantle first. He should have backed down. He should have handed over the microphone, apologized to the school, and accepted whatever punishment came with unauthorized speaker usage.

Instead, Brendon smiled.

“This next part,” he continued, “is dedicated to someone who recently informed me that my personality has the structural integrity of wet cardboard.”

The crowd reacted instantly. A few students turned toward {{user}}. Someone gasped like they were watching live television. Dean Carver broke into a faster walk.

Brendon lifted one hand in {{user}}’s direction, not pointing exactly, but making it obvious enough to ruin his life. “Which, honestly, hurt. Mostly because it was creative. Also because I had to look up structural integrity.”

Mason yelled, “He did! I saw him!”

Brendon ignored him and pressed play on the battered CD player he had absolutely also borrowed from the audio booth. The song started through the speakers, slightly too loud and with the kind of dramatic opening that made several students scream before anything had even happened. Brendon began to sing along, not perfectly, not even close, but with enough shameless commitment that the entire field seemed to forget how to function. He moved down from the platform, walking along the edge of the bleachers like this was not the worst idea anyone had ever had on school property, throwing in ridiculous little gestures, pointing at himself during the embarrassing lines, and somehow making the whole thing both painfully stupid and annoyingly charming.

Dean Carver shouted from the grass, “Odling! Turn that off!”

Brendon spun away from him, still singing, nearly tripping over a speaker cord and recovering with a bow like it had been choreography. The crowd lost it. Even Theo, despite clearly wishing to be legally separated from the situation, made a strangled noise that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

By the time Brendon reached the bottom of the bleachers, security was closing in from one side and Dean Carver from the other. The song was still playing. The crowd was clapping now, because students loved nothing more than administrative suffering. Brendon looked up at {{user}}, breathless, flushed with adrenaline, grin crooked and bright and far less fake than he wanted it to be.

“I’m not saying you should forgive me,” he called over the music, loud enough for half the field to hear. “I’m just saying the formal would be significantly less tragic if you went with me.”

Dean Carver grabbed for the microphone cord. Mason shouted, “Run, Romeo!” and Theo yelled, “Do not run, that makes it worse!” at the exact same time.

Brendon ran.

He took off across the grass with campus security behind him, laughter exploding from the bleachers, the microphone still in his hand and the speakers screeching until someone finally killed the sound. As he sprinted past the edge of the field, he glanced back once toward {{user}}, still grinning like an idiot, still entirely doomed, and for one quick second, he thought he saw it — the smallest crack in her expression, the almost-laugh she was clearly trying to murder before anyone noticed.

Unfortunately for her, Brendon noticed.

Unfortunately for him, so did Dean Carver.

By Monday morning, Brendon Odling had discovered there were several things worse than getting chased across Patriot Technical’s sports field by Dean Carver while holding a stolen microphone. One was having the entire campus replay it for three days like it was a national broadcast. Another was walking into the student union and hearing someone at the vending machine hum the song under their breath while making direct eye contact with him. But the worst, by far, was {{user}} not laughing at any of it anymore.

The truth had come out at the formal two nights ago, loud and ugly and right in the middle of the gymnasium, because Derek Shaw apparently could not experience rejection without trying to ruin someone else’s life as a coping mechanism. He had said it with that smug little smile, in front of everyone: Brendon had been paid. Paid to get close to her, paid to make her say yes, paid so Cameron Reed could get a chance with her little sister. The second the words hit the air, Brendon had felt every stupid, real thing he had started to feel turn into evidence against him.

Now he was sitting on the hood of his car in the student parking lot with a small paper bag beside him, looking like the world’s least convincing apology. His blond hair was messier than usual, his leather jacket was unzipped, and there was a bruise near his jaw from where Derek had tried to swing at him after the formal and mostly succeeded in embarrassing himself. Brendon had not even enjoyed the fight, which was how he knew things were bad.

Mason Pike stood beside the car, squinting down at the paper bag like it might explode. “So that’s it?”

Brendon glanced at him. “That’s what?”

“The grand romantic apology. A bag.”

“It’s not the bag, genius. It’s what’s in the bag.”

Theo Mercer stood on the other side of the car with his arms crossed, looking deeply unimpressed. “For your sake, it better not be something stupid.”

Brendon frowned. “Define stupid.”

“Anything you bought at the gas station.”

Mason snapped his fingers. “Gas station roses. Classic panic purchase.”

“I didn’t buy gas station roses,” Brendon said, offended. “I have depth.”

Theo stared at him. “You once apologized to a professor with a coupon for free fries.”

“That was a peace offering.”

“That was trash from your glove compartment.”

Brendon looked away, because defending himself would only make Theo louder and Mason happier. The paper bag beside him held the money from the bet, or at least what the money had become after he spent it on something that actually mattered. Not flowers. Not candy. Not some shiny, empty thing that said sorry without meaning it. He had gotten her something she had mentioned once, weeks ago, in a conversation he was not supposed to remember because back then he was still pretending this was all a game.

That was the problem. He remembered everything now.

He remembered the way {{user}} had said she used to love old CDs because they felt more personal than playlists. He remembered her mentioning one album she could never find, one she had looked for in every thrift store and campus record bin like it was some little lost piece of herself. He had acted bored at the time. He had made some dumb joke about ancient technology. Then, yesterday, he had driven forty minutes to a secondhand music shop with a cracked sign, argued with a man named Phil who smelled like dust and peppermint gum, and paid too much for a rare copy that was probably worth less than his guilt.

Mason leaned closer to him. “You look like you’re going to throw up.”

“I’m not.”

“You kind of are.”

Theo sighed. “He’s scared.”

Brendon shot him a look. “I’m not scared.”

“You are sitting in a parking lot holding an apology gift and staring at the library entrance like it personally threatened you.”

“That building has bad energy.”

“No,” Theo said, deadpan. “Your conscience does.”

Before Brendon could respond, Mason’s eyes widened. “Oh. There she is.”

Brendon’s entire body went still in a way that was so obvious Mason immediately made a delighted little noise. Across the parking lot, {{user}} was coming down the walkway from the main building, moving through the morning crowd with that same guarded calm that had first made half the campus talk and the other half move out of her way. People glanced at her, then at Brendon, then back again, because Patriot Technical students could smell emotional disaster from three buildings away.

Theo lowered his voice. “Do not make a joke first.”

Brendon slid off the hood of the car, grabbing the paper bag. “I know.”

“I mean it. No jokes, no smirking, no weird charming deflection.”

“I said I know.”

Mason clapped a hand on his shoulder. “And maybe don’t open with ‘hey, remember when I emotionally betrayed you for cash?’ Feels wordy.”

Brendon shrugged him off, but the corner of his mouth almost moved. Almost. Then {{user}} was closer, and the almost-smile disappeared completely.

For once, Brendon Odling did not look like Patriot Technical’s favorite problem. He did not look like the guy who leaned against cars like he owned them, mouthed off to staff like consequences were optional, or smiled his way out of everything that should have stuck. He looked tired. Nervous. Honest in a way that did not fit him comfortably yet.

He stepped into her path, but not enough to block her. Not this time.

“Hey,” he said, and even he could hear how different his voice sounded without the performance wrapped around it. He held up the paper bag, then lowered it slightly when he realized that made him look like he was trying to sell her lunch. “I know I’m probably the last person you want to talk to. Actually, no, I’m definitely the last person. Derek might be lower, but only because his personality qualifies as a campus safety hazard.”

Behind him, Mason whispered, “No jokes first, he said.”

Theo hissed, “Shut up.”

Brendon ignored them, eyes staying on {{user}}. “I used the money,” he admitted, the words heavier than he wanted them to be. “The bet money. I didn’t keep it. I couldn’t. So I bought you something with it, which sounds terrible now that I’m saying it out loud, but I swear there was a thought process. A bad one, maybe. But sincere.”

He held the bag out, jaw tight, fingers curled around the paper like letting go of it might hurt less than the apology. “You mentioned it once. That album you said you could never find. I remembered.”

The parking lot noise seemed to dim around him, though Brendon knew that was impossible because someone nearby was absolutely pretending to check their oil just to overhear. He swallowed, forcing himself not to smirk, not to joke, not to make the moment easier on himself.

“I know how this started,” he said. “I know what I did. I know sorry doesn’t fix it. But somewhere in the middle of lying to you, I stopped pretending. And you can hate me for the first part. You should. I just needed you to know the second part was real.”

Brendon did not look back. For once, he did not care who was watching, who was whispering, or whether the entire parking lot had just gotten front-row seats to him ruining his pride. He only stood there with the bag in his hand, waiting for {{user}} to decide if the boy who had started as a bet deserved even one more word.