Kai turns the volume up.It’s instinct—muscle memory from years of being watched, admired, followed. If something slips from his grip, he tightens the show. Makes it brighter. Louder. Impossible to ignore.His laugh carries down the hallway before he does.He shows up late to first period, door swinging open like an entrance cue. Someone snickers. Someone else straightens. A few heads turn automatically, trained to react.Kai grins, unapologetic, flashing that effortless charm that used to bend rooms around him.“Sorry,” he says lightly, not sorry at all. “Traffic.”There’s no traffic on campus.The teacher sighs but lets it go. They always do.Kai slides into his seat—leans back, sprawls a little wider than necessary. His gaze flicks, just once, toward Ruby.She doesn’t look up.Not even a glance.The grin stays on his face. It cracks on the inside.By lunchtime, the performance escalates.Kai drops into a chair too hard. Tosses his jacket across the table like a flag. Tells a story
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