The cafeteria noise hit 100 decibels.

  My molars ached. My sensory processing center waved a white flag. The wolf was already pacing in the back of my mind, scratching at the base of my skull. It wanted silence. It wanted meat. It definitely didn't want to listen to the Glams discuss the refractive index of their new holographic manicures.

  “Abort mission,” I muttered, spinning on my heel.

  “Wise choice,” Handy chirped in my ear, his voice sounding a little tinny against the lunchtime roar. “The decibel level in there is approaching ‘jet engine takeoff’. Also, I detect a high probability of tuna surprise. You hate tuna surprise.”

  “I hate surprise,” I corrected.

  I adjusted the strap of my bag, feeling the reassuring weight of the pom-pom knife against my hip, and hit the exterior doors.

  The air froze the moisture in my nose instantly. It was heavy, dry, and smelled of wood smoke and ice. The sky was a pale, steel-gray, the sun a deceptively bright white disk hanging low in the sky. It wasn't the sunshine you put on a postcard. It was the kind that bounced off the fresh snow and dirty ice, creating a white fire that numbed your fingers and seared your retinas.

  I pulled my sunglasses from my pocket—oversized, mirrored aviators that hid my eyes and half my face.

  “UV index is critical,” Handy noted. “The snow albedo effect is amplifying radiation by eighty percent. I hope you’re wearing your lead-lined cheer skirt.”

  “Ha ha. I can turn furry to stay warm. Too bad this place has cameras.”

  I walked toward the far side of the quad, where the concrete planters offered a semblance of nature. The trees were genetically altered oaks with leaves that looked a little too waxy to be real, but they cast long, sharp shadows against the snow.

  I sat on the edge of a planter, brushing away a layer of frost before unpacking my lunch—a protein bar that looked like a brick of sawdust and an apple that cost more than my phone. I took a bite of the apple. It was cold, sour, and blissfully quiet.

  Phase One complete, I thought. Avoid humanity. Eat food. Survive.

  “Phase Two,” Handy interrupted. “Scan sector for potential threats. Or potential boyfriends. Whichever comes first.”

  “We are not doing this,” I chewed loudly. “Operation Ice Queen is in full effect. No boyfriends. Stay single.”

  “Boring. But statistically safer. Wait.”

  The audio feed in my ear crackled.

  “Anomaly detected at your six o’clock. Low thermal signature relative to the environment? No, wait. Irregular thermal spikes. High brooding potential.”

  I froze, apple halfway to my mouth. I didn’t turn around. Not yet. I let my senses expand, pushing past the smell of the frozen pavement and the distant hum of traffic.

  I caught it.

  Mint. Cold iron. And something else—sickness.

  It was the smell of sweat, which was wrong for twenty-degree weather. It was the cold, clammy sweat of a fever. Underneath it, the metallic tang I’d smelled in the hallway was sharper, acrid, like copper wire heating.

  I turned my head slowly, keeping the motion casual.

  Under the heavy shade of the architectural awning—a massive slab of concrete jutting out from the library wing—sat a figure.

  Danny Troy.

  He was alone, naturally. He was sitting on a metal bench, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, head hanging low. He wasn’t looking at a phone. He wasn’t looking at the courtyard. He was staring at the salt-stained ground between his boots.

  He looked terrible.

  Even from twenty feet away, I could see the tension in his shoulders. His black jacket—that expensive, signal-dampening tech-wear—zipped up to his chin. He should have looked comfortable in the cold, but he clenched his hands so tight his knuckles were white.

  “Zoom,” I commanded softly.

  My HUD flickered, the retinal overlay magnifying the image.

  Danny was vibrating. A fine, high-speed tremor that rattled his teeth. A bead of sweat froze on his temple. Cold sweat. Sickness. He looked fragile. Broken.

  The wolf inside me perked up.

  Prey? it asked.

  No, I corrected. Pack?

  Unknown, the wolf grumbled. Investigate.

  I lowered the apple. “Handy, what’s wrong with him?”

  “Hard to say without a biometric scan, which, as we’ve established, is impossible thanks to his paranoia-wear. But visually? He looks like he’s undergoing systemic shock. Or a severe allergic reaction. Or he ate the tuna surprise.”

  “He’s sweating in freezing weather,” I noted. “And he’s sitting in the darkest shadow he could find, avoiding the snow glare.”

  “Vampire?” Handy suggested.

  I snorted, my breath pluming in the air. “In the middle of a high school courtyard? Unlikely. Moldark’s goons don’t attend AP English. Besides, if he were a vampire, he’d be dust by now. The reflection off the ice is intense enough to mimic a tanning bed.”

  “Dhampir, maybe?” Handy mused. “Half-breed? They have sun sensitivity.”

  I stiffened. Like me.

  I had my own issues with the environment. The flashing lights of the arcade, the strobes at the pep rallies—they scrambled my brain, triggered the wolf. My biology was a minefield.

  Watching him sit there, shaking in the dark, cracked the ice I’d been trying to build around my chest.

  I knew that posture. I knew the way he was breathing—shallow, controlled breaths, trying to master a body that was rebelling against him. I’d done that exact pose in the bathroom stall a dozen times, waiting for the fur to recede, waiting for the pain to stop.

  Don’t do it, the rational part of my brain screamed. Stick to the script. He’s a liability. You’re a liability. Walk away.

  I stood up, my boots crunching on the frozen grit.

  “Nikki,” Handy warned. “I’m detecting a spike in empathy. I advise you to suppress it. Remember the plan? Ice Queen? You’re supposed to be mean.”

  “I can be mean,” I said, tossing the core of my apple into a nearby recycling chute. “I’m going to go over there and tell him he looks like a corpse. That’s mean, right?”

  “That’s basically flirting in your vocabulary.”

  I ignored the AI and started walking.

  The cold pressed against me, biting at my exposed cheeks, but the sunlight was the real aggressor. It glared off the windows and the snowdrifts, turning the world into white fire. I tried to adopt a strut—head high, shoulders back, the "I own this school" walk that Tessa had perfected. I needed armor. I needed him to see the cheerleader, not the girl who recognized his pain.

  As I crossed the boundary from the harsh glare into the deep shade of the awning, the visual noise died down instantly.

  Danny didn’t look up. He didn’t seem to hear me approach, which was wrong. The guy who caught a lunch tray at Mach 3 should have heard boots on concrete.

  “Hey,” I said.

  My voice came out sharper than I intended.

  He flinched.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  It was a violent motion, his whole body jerking as if I’d tased him. His head snapped up.

  For a second, the mask was gone.

  His eyes were wide, the pupils blown so large his irises were just thin rings of black fire. There was no cool detachment, no mysterious swagger. Just raw, naked agony.

  He looked at me, and for a heartbeat, he didn’t recognize me. He looked like a cornered animal waiting for the killing blow.

  Then, he blinked. He took a ragged breath, and the walls slammed back up. The tension shifted, the fear hiding behind a grimace of annoyance.

  “Nikki,” he rasped. His voice sounded like he’d been swallowing sand.

  “You look like hell,” I said, crossing my arms and leaning a hip against the concrete pillar. “Did the cafeteria food finally strike back?”

  He let out a short, dry laugh that turned into a cough. He pressed a hand to his chest, wincing.

  “Something like that,” he managed. “Just… a headache.”

  “A headache?” I raised an eyebrow behind my sunglasses. “You’re shaking, Troy. And you’re sweating enough to freeze into an icicle if you stay out here. In the middle of January.”

  He pulled the collar of the jacket tighter, shrinking back into the shadows. “I run hot. Fever.”

  “You’re hiding in the dark,” I countered. “If you had a fever, you’d be inside where the heating is cranked up to tropical. You’re avoiding the light.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, the words clipped. “Just need a minute.”

  “You need water,” I said, stepping closer. My skin prickled. The hair on my arms stood up, reaching for him. Being this close to him felt like standing next to a high-voltage transformer. “And maybe to get out of those wet clothes before you get hypothermia.”

  “I can’t,” he whispered.

  “Can’t what? Go inside?”

  He looked at me then, really looked at me. His gaze was glassy, unfocused. He looked… desperate.

  “The sun,” he murmured. He gestured vaguely toward the strip of blinding snow beyond the awning. “It’s… too bright. The reflection.”

  “It’s winter. The sun is ninety-three million miles away.”

  “I have…” He swallowed hard, his throat clicking. “Photodermatitis. Sun allergy. The snow makes it worse. It’s like being under a magnifying glass.”

  I paused.

  Photodermatitis. It was a real thing. People broke out in hives, got blisters, felt sick. It was rare, but it existed. And in winter, with the UV bouncing off every icy surface, it could be brutal for someone sensitive.

  But looking at him, seeing the way his skin seemed to shrink away from the reflected light, the way his veins stood out blue and stark against his pallor, it felt like more than a rash.

  It felt like weakness.

  And I knew exactly how much it sucked to be weak when you were supposed to be strong.

  “You forgot your meds?” I asked, my voice losing some of its edge.

  He shook his head, a micro-movement. “Sunscreen. Special grade. Left it… in my other bag.”

  He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the concrete wall. He looked defeated. The "cool guy" facade was dissolving, leaving just a boy in pain.

  Leave him, Handy whispered. He’s not your problem.

  But my hand was already moving to my bag.

  I unzipped the side pocket. Wedged between a roll of pre-wrap and my extra spirit bow was a tube.

  “Here,” I said.

  Danny opened one eye. It took him a second to focus on the white tube in my hand.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s SPF 70,” I said, tossing it gently. It landed on his thigh. “Put it on before you melt.”

  He stared at the tube. His hand hovered over it, trembling.

  “Take it,” I said. “Unless you want to burst into flames. Which would be tragic for your brooding reputation.”

  He picked it up. His fingers were clumsy. He popped the cap, squeezed a dollop of white cream onto his palm, and rubbed it onto his neck.

  He hesitated, then looked at his hands.

  “It works fast,” I said.

  He rubbed it in. I watched, fascinated despite myself. As the lotion absorbed, the tension in his shoulders seemed to unspool. His breathing deepened. The frantic trembling slowed.

  It was like watching a wilted plant getting watered. Instant relief.

  “Better?” I asked.

  He looked up. The color was returning to his face—not much; he was still pale as moonlight, but the sickly gray undertone was fading.

  “Yeah,” he breathed. He looked at the bottle, then at me. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it,” I said, pushing off the pillar.

  I turned to leave. I had done the good deed. I had saved the boy. Now I needed to get away before the gravity pulled me in.

  “Nikki.”

  He stood up.

  He moved fast again, but this time it wasn’t a blur. It was just… sudden. One second he was sitting, the next he was standing right in front of me, blocking my path to the glare.

  He held out the bottle.

  “You’ll need this,” he said. “For practice.”

  “Keep it,” I said, keeping my hands tucked in my pockets to keep them warm. “I have three more at home. My mom buys them in bulk. She thinks the winter sun causes wrinkles faster than time itself.”

  “I can’t take your gear.”

  He didn't retract his hand. He stepped closer.

  He was tall. Taller than he looked sitting down. I had to tilt my head back slightly to look him in the eye. The shade of the awning wrapped around us, creating a private little world of cool gray concrete and intense silence.

  “Take it,” he insisted. His voice was stronger now, the gravel back in the baritone.

  I sighed. Arguing with him was exhausting.

  I reached out to grab the bottle.

  “Fine. You’re stubborn. Is that a New York thing?”

  “It’s a survival thing.”

  My fingers closed around the plastic tube. His fingers were still holding the other end.

  Skin brushed against skin.

  SNAP.

  Blue light flared. It wasn't static; it was a circuit closing.

  The smell of ozone filled the awning.

  Pain zipped up my arm, bypassing my nerves and hitting my brain with a flash of white light. My teeth rattled.

  “Ow!” I yelped, jerking my hand back. The bottle clattered to the frozen ground.

  Danny hissed, shaking his hand.

  “What the…” he muttered, staring at his fingertips.

  But I wasn't looking at my hand. I was looking at my wrist.

  My smart-watch—the housing for Handy, my lifeline, my tactical advantage—was dead.

  The screen was black. A thin wisp of acrid smoke curled up from the casing.

  Handy?

  Nothing. No static. No snark. Just dead silicone on my wrist.

  “You fried him,” I whispered, horror dawning.

  “What?” Danny looked at me, confusion warring with the lingering pain on his face. He was rubbing his thumb over his fingers, as if checking if they were still there.

  “My watch,” I said, tapping the dead screen frantically. “You… we… what was that?”

  Danny looked down at the bottle on the ground, then back at me. His eyes were wide again, the dark void swirling with something that looked a lot like shock.

  “Static,” he said. But he didn’t sound convinced. “Dry winter air. Synthetic fabrics.”

  “That wasn’t static,” I snapped. “That was a taser. That was a lightning bolt.”

  I looked at him. Really looked at him.

  The connection was still there. Even without the touch, the air between us was humming. The hair on my arms was standing straight up beneath my coat. My skin felt hot, prickly, like I was standing too close to a fire.

  And beneath the fear, beneath the confusion, my blood was singing.

  It was a terrifying rush. My heart was hammering a rhythm that had nothing to do with running away. It wanted to stay. It wanted to touch him again, just to see if the lightning would strike twice.

  Attraction, the wolf purred. Power.

  Danger, I countered.

  Danny took a step back, breaking the field. He looked at his hand, then at me, his expression shifting from pain to a guarded curiosity.

  “I’ve never…” he started, then stopped. He looked at my watch. “Is it broken?”

  “It’s toast,” I said, my voice shaking. “Complete brick.”

  “I can pay for it,” he offered quickly. “I can replace it.”

  “You can’t replace this,” I muttered. Handy wasn't just hardware. He was customized, illegal, irreplaceable AI tech from a dead uncle. If his core was fried…

  Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. Frustration. Fear. And this stupid, overwhelming heat radiating from the boy in front of me.

  I bent down, snatched the lotion bottle from the concrete, and shoved it into his chest.

  “Just… take the lotion,” I said, my voice thick. “And wear rubber gloves next time.”

  “Nikki, wait—”

  He reached out, but he stopped himself inches from my arm. He remembered the shock.

  I didn't wait.

  I couldn't.

  The feeling in my chest was boiling over. It was too much—the sympathy for his pain, the shock of the electricity, the silence of Handy, and the undeniable, magnetic pull that made me want to grab his jacket and never let go.

  I felt exposed. Naked.

  I turned and ran.

  I didn't care about the Ice Queen act anymore. I didn't care about looking cool. I sprinted out of the shade, into the white fire of the winter sun.

  The cold air seared my lungs, but I barely felt it. My skin was already burning from the inside out.

  “Nikki!” he called after me.

  I didn't look back.

  I ran across the quad, my sneakers pounding the pavement, dodging a group of startled freshmen. I needed to get inside. I needed to get away.

  I ducked into the library corridor.

  Silence.

  I leaned against the wall, clutching my dead wrist, gasping for air.

  Handy? I tried again.

  Rebooting… a faint, garbled text scrolled across my internal HUD. System integrity… critical… cause of failure… massive… energy… surge…

  I slid down the wall, burying my face in my hands.

  “Thank you,” he had said.

  I closed my eyes, and all I could see were his. Dark. Intense. And terrified.

  He wasn't just a boy with a sun allergy. He wasn't just a rich kid with a scrambler.

  He was a storm. And I had just walked right into the eye.

  My heart wouldn't slow down. The boiling feeling in my veins wasn't receding. It was settling, heavy and hot.

  He wasn't just a boy. He was a live wire. And I had just grabbed it with both hands.