The town of Willow Creek looked like something out of a faded postcard — cobblestone sidewalks, sleepy coffee shops, and cherry trees that lined the streets like whispered secrets. Lila James had barely stepped out of the car before she could feel the weight of unfamiliar eyes. New town. New school. New start. At least, that's what her dad kept saying, like it was a promise he could keep.
The front steps of Willow Creek High were chipped at the edges, worn down by years of teenage boots and gossip. She paused at the door, inhaled deeply, and reminded herself that this was only temporary. Just one year. Then she could be free.
Classrooms blurred together, teachers recited the same old introductions, and every hallway seemed to carry the same whisper: Who's the new girl? But Lila was good at disappearing. Years of being caught in the crossfire of her parents' chaos had made her an expert in silence.
That was until he walked in.
She was seated at the back of her third-period English class when the door swung open. Late, unapologetic, and dripping with something reckless. River Hayes. Every eye turned to him, some rolling, others watching with fascination. He wore a black hoodie, headphones around his neck, and a cut across his knuckle that hadn't quite healed.
Lila glanced away before their eyes could meet.
"Mr. Hayes," said the teacher, dryly. "Glad you could join us."
River smirked, not bothering with an excuse, and dropped into the empty seat next to Lila. She stiffened as his cologne — faintly cedar and smoke — drifted over to her. He didn't say a word. Just slouched in his chair, scribbled something into the worn cover of his notebook, and tapped his fingers along his knee like he was keeping time with music only he could hear.
The class droned on. Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet, ironically. Lila tried to take notes, but her eyes kept flicking sideways. Once, River caught her. He didn't smirk. Didn't tease. Just held her gaze for a moment longer than necessary, like he was trying to read her mind — and she wasn't sure if she wanted him to stop.
At lunch, she sat outside under a cherry tree, picking at her sandwich and pretending she wasn't alone. The breeze stirred her curls, and she closed her eyes, grateful for a second of quiet.
"You're not from here."
She startled. River stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, eyes shadowed by his hood.
"No," she said slowly. "Is it that obvious?"
He shrugged. "You sit like you're ready to run."
She arched an eyebrow. "And you watch people like you've got something to hide."
That earned a small smile from him. It was crooked, imperfect, and entirely magnetic.
"Fair enough," he said. "I'm River."
"Lila."
"Pretty name," he said, then looked up at the blossoms above. "The trees only bloom for a few weeks. You came at the right time."
And then, just like that, he turned and walked away. No explanation. No goodbye. Just River, leaving behind questions like raindrops.
Lila stared after him, the wind brushing past her like a promise she didn't understand yet.
Something had just started — she could feel it in her chest — slow and electric, like the first flicker of a storm far away.