Everyone at Eastwood High knew Jonah Reyes. He wasn’t just a bad boy—he was the bad boy. The kind of guy who never brought a backpack, showed up late (if at all), and always had a cigarette tucked behind his ear, even if he never lit it on school grounds. He wore defiance like a second skin, and he carried his reputation like a shadow. Y/N? She was the opposite. Not a teacher’s pet, not invisible either—just someone who kept her head down, kept her grades up, and didn’t make noise. She had her friends, her journals, and her routines. She didn’t need chaos. She didn’t want chaos. So of course Jonah Reyes sat next to her in detention. He dropped into the seat beside her like he belonged there, even though there were at least five empty desks. She didn’t look up. He didn’t speak. The first hour passed in silence, broken only by the ticking clock and the occasional throat-clear from the bored teacher at the front. Y/N scribbled in her notebook, trying not to notice Jonah’s long legs stretched out in front of him, or the way he drummed his fingers like he had music only he could hear. “You always write like that?” he asked suddenly.
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