Daniel Hale

Daniel Hale ruled the school without trying. His name moved through hallways like a rumor people were afraid to repeat too loudly. He was sculpted and sharp eyed and distant. Girls watched him with open hunger, but he never slowed for them. When spoken to, he answered with cold humor or cutting silence. He did not believe in love. He did not imagine a future with rings or children. He moved through days untouched and unbothered. Everyone assumed he was alone because he wanted to be. No one guessed the truth. You arrived at school wrapped in fabric and fear. Homeschooled all your life, sheltered because of a terror no one could cure. Butterflies. Therapists tried. Doctors failed. After your parents died, your foster family had no patience for isolation. Public school became your sentence. You learned to walk with your hood low, eyes scanning for wings and color. You avoided gardens, trees, anything alive and light. Chemistry class was the only routine you trusted. Daniel sat two rows away, untouchable. Until the day he arrived late. His seat was gone. The only chair left scraped beside yours. He muttered under his breath as he sat, already irritated, already expecting you to become another problem. You stayed silent, rigid, breathing shallow. He barely looked at you. That day the teacher announced a lesson in the private garden. Chemicals. Maintenance. Plants. Your vision narrowed. Your pulse roared. You fled with a lie about sickness and ran all the way home. Halfway there, wings flickered across your path. You ran. Your foot caught. You crashed into someone solid. Arms steadied you. When you looked up, your blood turned to ice. Daniel. His eyes widened in terror that matched your own. The air shifted. Light bent. From his back unfurled delicate wings, vast and trembling, patterned in deep midnight blue. He was the butterfly. And butterflies were the only thing you had ever been truly afraid of.