When trouble has a name

My hands trembled in my lap, fingers digging into the fabric of my jeans as I clenched my fists. It wasn’t Jace. Not anymore. It was him—Ryder Black.

He was a storm wrapped in denim and shadows, his eyes a deep golden blaze that had seen straight through me in the gym. Like he knew. Like he’d been there. My throat dried up.

“Ryder Black?” I whispered, barely managing the name.

Talia leaned in with a dramatic roll of her eyes, her thick curls bouncing. “Transfer. Rich troublemaker. Expelled from two schools. Rumor has it he broke a guy’s jaw with one punch, and his dad paid off the principal. Now he’s Crestwood’s problem.”

I blinked at her. “And he’s in my class?”

“More than that,” she said darkly. “He’s in every class.”

I laughed nervously. “Well, that’s not terrifying.”

Talia leaned back in her chair, arms folded, lips pursed. “Just stay away. He’s the kind of boy that doesn’t come with warning labels. He is the warning.”

But she was wrong.

Ryder didn’t feel like a warning.

He felt like something that had already happened. Something that was coming for me whether I liked it or not.

****

The rest of the school day felt like someone had stretched time thin. People who had ignored me just weeks ago now whispered when I walked past. A guy in the hallway tripped over his own foot trying to hold the door for me. Girls narrowed their eyes, calculating. I’d lost weight. I’d changed. But no one saw the hours I spent throwing up from anxiety, the blood on my socks from early morning runs, or the way I still woke up hearing Jace’s words echo in my chest like gunfire.

I’d wanted to be visible. I just hadn’t realized what came with it.

By the time last period arrived, I felt like I was walking underwater.

Literature.

I slid into the seat by the window at the back of the class, tugging the sleeves of my cardigan over my fingers. Ms. Hanley’s room looked the same as last semester—quotes from Brontë and Shakespeare on the walls, a crumbling stack of paperbacks teetering beside her desk. The smell of dried markers and cold coffee lingered.

Then the door opened.

Boots. Heavy. Deliberate.

Ryder Black stepped in, dragging every stare with him like gravity. Black hoodie, hood down. Messy black hair that looked like he never brushed it but still somehow worked. He was tall—easily over six feet—with broad shoulders that made his hoodie hang just right. His skin was sun-warmed and smooth, but there was something in his eyes that didn’t match his age. Something… jagged.

He didn’t look at anyone until he reached the back.

Until he reached me.

“Mind if I sit?” His voice was low and unbothered, like he already knew I wouldn’t say no.

I arched a brow. “Was that supposed to be polite?”

He smirked and dropped into the seat beside mine anyway. “I’m not great with manners.”

Ms. Hanley began droning about archetypes and symbolism, but the words slid off me. Every molecule of air between me and Ryder felt charged. I could hear the slight rasp of his breathing. Smell the faint trace of leather and cedar on him.

“What do you want?” I muttered, eyes fixed on the board.

Ryder leaned in slightly, his voice a quiet rumble. “To return the favor.”

I turned, confused. “What favor?”

“You didn’t fall apart,” he said softly. “You sat in the middle of that road with mascara running down your face, and you still swore you’d make him regret it. Most people collapse. You didn’t.”

I stiffened. “So it was you.”

His lips twitched. “Took you long enough.”

I looked down, pulse thudding like a warning. I'd told myself it didn't count if no one saw. But he had. He’d seen every ugly second—and stayed.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” I asked, the words barely above a breath.

“I figured you’d come back stronger,” he said. “Didn’t want to get in the way of that.”

Ms. Hanley’s voice broke through the low hum of whispers. “Nova Carter. Ryder Black. Since you two are clearly so engaged… partner project. Due Friday. Pick a tragic love story.”

Ryder’s eyes sparked with amusement. “Oh, we’ll make it tragic, alright.”

Some of the class snickered. My face burned.

Ms. Hanley moved on, but the air between us stayed tight, like a taut thread waiting to snap.

After class, I gathered my books in silence. Ryder didn’t move.

“So,” I said finally. “You’re just going to be everywhere now?”

He shrugged. “Looks like.”

“And you want to work with me?”

“I didn’t say I wanted to,” he said with a crooked smile. “I have to.”

I hesitated. “Why me?”

His eyes darkened, the teasing gone in an instant. “Because you’re not fake. You don’t pretend to be fine. You walk around holding yourself together with tape and fire, and somehow, you’re still standing. That’s rare.”

For a second, I couldn’t breathe.

No one had ever looked at me like that—like the broken pieces made me better.

He turned to leave, but paused at the doorway. “By the way. Your ex? Jace?”

My stomach clenched. “What about him?”

Ryder’s smile was gone now, his expression unreadable.

“He’s not done with you. Not even close.”

And then he walked out—leaving me frozen in my seat, notebook forgotten, heart racing like I’d just been told a storm was coming and it had my name on it.

And in the shadow of the doorway, someone else had been listening.

Jace.

His eyes met mine—and they weren’t soft this time.

They were full of rage.