Chapter Eight: The Flashback

Eleven years ago.

Celeste's Pov

The hallway was just like any other high school hallway—bright lights, lockers lining the walls, and the dull murmur of students exchanging whispered gossip, like secrets were just another currency. But there was something about St. Augustine Prep that made everything feel a bit more polished, a bit more important. The students here weren’t just students—they were the heirs to future empires, the ones who would shape the world.

I walked through it like I owned every inch.

My blazer was sharp, the skirt hitting just above my knee in the perfect mix of edgy and polished. My heels clicked against the floor, too confident and too loud to be ignored. Olivia, Sienna, and Vanessa were trailing behind me, all of them in perfect sync, just like always. But I was the one they followed.

“There he is,” Olivia whispered, a slight nudge to my elbow.

I didn’t need her to point. I’d already seen him. Leo Kingsley. The scholarship kid. Quiet, brooding, and entirely out of place in this world of privilege. He was always alone—always on the edge of the crowd, like he was too cool to care, or too detached to even try.

I watched as he walked past us, earbuds in, his eyes set ahead as if the rest of the world didn’t matter.

“Perfect timing,” Sienna whispered, her voice full of mischief.

I gave a short laugh. “I’m not gonna throw myself at him in the middle of a hallway.”

Vanessa raised an eyebrow. “He’s heading to the chem hallway. That’s basically fate.”

I sighed. “It’s a dare, not fate. And I always win my dares.”

I straightened my blazer, glanced back at the girls, then made my way across the hall. My heels echoed against the tiles with each step, an undeniable statement of who I was. I wasn’t about to be ignored—not by him, not by anyone.

“Leo!” I called, my voice cheerful and loud, like we were best friends and not complete strangers.

He didn’t react—kept walking, like I wasn’t even there.

I moved in front of him, walking backwards to keep his attention, my smile steady, my pace confident. “You’re in AP Lit, right?”

Nothing. He didn’t even flinch.

I leaned closer, just enough to make him aware of my presence. “Is this how you treat people, or is today special?”

Finally, he pulled one earbud out. His gaze flickered over me—shrewd, calculating, as though he was deciding whether I was worth his time.

“Do I know you?” he asked, his voice low but sharp.

I smiled, slow and measured. Not the fake smile I used for teachers or cameras. This one was genuine, the kind that came when I knew I had the upper hand.

“Not yet,” I said, my tone teasing but confident. I took a step back, making sure I had his full attention.

He looked me over for a second, not with admiration, but with the cold detachment of someone who didn’t care to know, who wasn’t interested. His gaze dropped, then met mine again, unwavering.

“Not interested,” he muttered, already turning away.

I blinked, taken aback for a second. But I didn’t let it show. I straightened up, gave him a small nod, and turned on my heel. “We’ll see about that.”

Behind me, I could hear Olivia let out a low whistle. “Damn, that was cold.”

Vanessa giggled. “You just got shot down.”

I didn’t even break stride, a small, confident smile curling on my lips. “That wasn’t a shot down. That was the beginning of the game.”

Later That Day – AP Literature

The afternoon sun cut sharp through the tall windows, striping the classroom floor in gold. Mahogany desks lined up like soldiers, the scent of old books clinging to the air. Everything about this school whispered legacy—polished, rehearsed, expensive.

I tapped my pen against my notebook, more interested in the sound than whatever Ms. Penrose was droning on about at the front. Her cursive handwriting scrawled across the whiteboard, looping out a list of names.

“Partner assignments,” she said, not bothering to turn around. “These are final.”

I scanned the board. Found my name. And then his.

Montgomery + Kingsley

Of course.

He sat three rows away from me, back straight, tie perfect, like he’d been cut out of a catalog for “brooding genius.” Hair neatly parted, dark lashes low over whatever book he was reading.

He didn’t look up. He never did.

But I smiled anyway.

Because fate—just like fun—had good timing.

I slid into the seat next to him. He didn't look at me, just kept staring at him book, like I wasn't even there.

I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and leaned in just a little. “Looks like we’re partners.”

Leo didn’t glance up. “Looks like it.”

I leaned back in my chair and gave him a side-eye. “So, are we just going to sit here in silence or…?”

He glanced up at me, clearly unimpressed. “You’ve got a problem with silence?”

“Not at all,” I replied, shrugging. “Just wondering if you ever talk.”

He didn’t blink. “Depends on whether it’s worth talking.”

I tilted my head, studying him for a moment. “Wow. You’re fun.”

He just stared at me for a beat, then said, “I’m not here for fun.”

I chuckled softly. “No kidding. I’m sure you’re thrilled to be stuck with me.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, turning his attention back to his notebook.

I leaned forward slightly. “Must be nice, huh? Just sitting there all serious while everyone else has to pretend.”

“Pretending’s not my thing,” he said, voice flat.

I smirked. “Good to know. Guess we’ll see if you can handle this.”

He didn’t respond, just scribbled something down in his notebook, but the corner of his mouth twitched—just enough to let me know I hadn’t completely bored him.

After a few minutes of silence I said lightly

“So,” “do we hate this paired assignment already, or are we pretending to be optimistic.

That got a response. His eyes flicked to mine—cold, unreadable. “Depends. Are you planning to do any actual work?”

I gave him a slow smile. “Do I look like someone who doesn’t?”

“You look like someone who makes other people do it for her.”

“Wow,” I said, impressed. “You got all that from one glance?”

He closed his notebook. “Two.”

I tilted my head, pretending to consider him. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

“I talk when there’s something worth saying.”

“Must be lonely.”

“Must be peaceful.”

His voice was calm, but there was a blade under it. I liked that. It made things more interesting.

“Well, Leo,” I said, letting his name linger just a bit, “I think we’ll work just fine.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t react. Just stared.

Then finally: “We’ll see.”

After School

I could’ve gone home. I should’ve gone home. But curiosity was a louder voice than common sense, and it was practically screaming.

I waited across the street, watching him disappear through the side entrance of a small bookstore wedged between a tailor’s shop and a café. The place had old lettering on the windows and the kind of dim, cozy glow that made you feel like you were stepping into another decade. I crossed over.

The bell over the door gave a lazy jingle as I walked in. The whole place smelled like dust and forgotten paperbacks—like the kind of books everyone says they’ve read but never actually has. Somewhere in the back, a classical music was being played it sounded like this was a scene from a movie, and a keyboard clacked like it was trying too hard to be productive.

Leo was behind the counter. His blazer was gone, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, but he still looked maddeningly neat. He glanced up once, barely, and went back to typing something into the register.

“You following me now?” he asked, not even pretending to sound surprised.

“Not exactly,” I said, stepping closer. “I was just in the mood for literature and disdain.”

He didn’t look up. “We’re fresh out of literature.”

I smiled. “Good thing I came for the disdain, then.”

He finally looked at me. “Do you need something?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Are you always this charming when customers walk in?”

He stared. “You’re not a customer.”

I picked up the nearest book, flipped it open dramatically. “I am now.”

He gave a long sigh and turned away, stacking a few books on a shelf like he was rearranging his will to live.

I trailed after him, letting the silence stretch just a little. “So, this is what you do after school? Mysterious bookstore shifts and brooding?”

“It pays.”

“And lets you pretend people don’t exist. Convenient.”

He didn’t answer, which I was starting to realize was his favorite move.

I walked beside him, not really helping, not really leaving either. “We make a good team, you know. You avoid people. I collect them. It’s balance.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“Funny,” I said, “my best friends say the same thing. Still, they keep me around.”

Leo turned to me, finally still. His expression unreadable. “You don’t get bored easily, do you?”

I smiled sweetly. “Not when there’s a mystery worth solving.”

He looked at me like I wasn’t a mystery. Like he already knew exactly who I was and found it painfully uninteresting.

And still—he didn’t ask me to leave.

I didn’t leave.

Not when he ignored me. Not when the silence stretched so long it should’ve felt awkward. It didn’t.

Instead, I wandered through the cramped aisles like I belonged there—heels clicking softly on the worn wooden floors, fingers brushing over spines of books I wouldn’t read. A place like this didn’t fit me. I didn’t care. I wasn’t here to fit in.

I was here for him.

“You always this quiet, or is it just around people you’re convinced are beneath you?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder.

Leo didn’t look up. “I’m always this quiet.”

I let out a hum, tracing the faded gold lettering on the spine of a poetry collection. “That’s tragic.”

He didn’t answer, but I could tell I’d gotten under his skin—not with what I said, but because I was still here. Still talking. Still choosing him when no one else would’ve bothered.

I looped back to the counter and leaned against it, resting my elbows on the glass. “So what time are you off?”

Leo didn’t look away from the register screen. “Why?”

I tilted my head, smile slow. “We’ve got a whole assignment to plan, remember?”

Now he looked at me—finally, really looked. There was something heavy in his gaze, something just shy of annoyed but not quite indifferent. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Absolutely not,” I said, popping the ‘t’ for emphasis.

A beat passed.

He sighed. “Nine. I close at nine.”

I smiled, victorious. “Great. I’ll wait.”

He stared like he hadn’t heard me right. “You’ll what?”

I pushed off the counter, already heading toward the reading nook in the corner of the shop. “You heard me. I’ll be over there, pretending to study until your shift ends.”

“You’re insane,” he called after me.

I shot him a grin over my shoulder. “I prefer persistent.”

Four hours later, the bookstore was quiet. The sky outside had gone dark, painted in deep navy streaked with hints of leftover sunset. I was curled into a battered armchair that smelled like dust and old secrets, half-reading a tattered copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray, half-watching him from behind the pages.

He hadn’t spoken again. Not once.

But he hadn’t asked me to leave either.

The bell above the door chimed softly at closing time, and he locked it behind the last customer. Then, finally, he walked over.

“You’re still here,” he said like it surprised him.

I stretched like a cat, letting the book fall closed in my lap. “Told you I would be.”

He studied me, arms crossed. “You always stalk your project partners, or am I just lucky?”

I stood, slinging my bag over one shoulder. “Depends. Do you always play hard to get, or am I just lucky?”

His jaw twitched like he wanted to smile and hated the idea.

“I know a place,” he said eventually, flat but not unfriendly.

I blinked. “What?”

“To study,” he clarified. “You want to work on assignment, right? I’m not doing it here.”

I grinned. “Lead the way, Kingsley.”

Fifteen minutes later, we were sitting at a table in the corner of a 24-hour library, surrounded by the soft rustle of pages and the low hum of fluorescent lights.

He hadn’t spoken since we walked in. Typical.

I unzipped my bag, pulled out my notebook, and propped my chin on one hand. “So,” I said, “how do you want to do this?”

Leo didn’t answer right away. He was flipping through the book for our assignment—something classic and tragic. Wuthering Heights or Jane Eyre. I didn’t care. I was here for him, not Brontë.

Finally, he spoke. “You do the analysis. I’ll handle the structure.”

I blinked. “Wow. Just like that? You trust me to do actual work?”

He looked up, bored. “No. But if you’re serious about this grade, you’ll want to prove me wrong.”

That—okay. That was a decent line.

I leaned closer over the table, pen tapping against my notebook. “You always this charming, or is it just my lucky day?”

Leo didn’t even flinch. “You keep saying that. Like you think this is luck.”

And there it was again. That blade under his words.

But I just smiled.

Three Months Later – The Park

The sun was low, dripping gold over the tops of the trees, casting long shadows across the empty park. The kind of light that made everything look like it belonged in a memory. The world was quiet except for the faint rustle of leaves and the occasional creak of the swing.

I was on it—feet brushing the gravel, skirt catching the breeze, fingers curling around the rusted chains. Leo stood behind me, hands in his pockets, still as stone. Then, slowly, he gave the swing a light push.

It wasn’t playful. It wasn’t flirty.

It was deliberate. Careful. Like he was giving me just enough momentum to feel something, but not enough to lose control.

“You never really needed an excuse,” he said quietly, almost like he was talking to the wind.

I tilted my head, letting the swing move with the rhythm of his push. “What?”

“To talk to me.”

He paused. “The assignment. That day at the bookstore. You already had your grade.”

I didn’t answer. He wasn’t asking a question.

“I used to wonder why you even bothered,” he went on. “Figured it was some boredom thing. A dare. Or maybe you just liked the sound of your own voice.”

My throat went tight. I didn’t turn around.

“But then,” he continued, “you kept showing up. Even after the project. Even when I tried not to say anything worth staying for.”

The swing slowed.

Leo stepped to the side, moving into my view, hands still in his pockets. His eyes were calm, unreadable—but not cold.

“Most people talk to fill the silence,” he said. “You... filled it without trying.”

I watched him carefully. He wasn’t looking at me now. He was looking past me, like if he looked directly, it would make everything too real.

“I hated it at first,” he said. “That feeling. Like you could see through me. Like you knew more than I wanted you to.”

I breathed out, slow. “Leo…”

He glanced at me then. Just once. It was fleeting—but it felt like a hand around my ribs, squeezing.

“Sometimes I think if you’d never said my name that day in the hallway, I would’ve stayed exactly who I was,” he said, voice low. “But you did.”

The wind shifted. A bird chirped in the distance.

“And now?” I asked quietly.

He took a step back, hands still in his pockets. “Now I can’t unhear it.”

He didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t need to.

Because suddenly, everything—the push, the silence, the way he stood close but not too close—felt like it meant more than it should.

And I found myself wondering—

Did he just confess to me?