02 chemistry

I shut my locker, arms loaded with books, and head to the library. Reading is my sanctuary, a way to drown out the noise of the world—and the whispers that have haunted me since last year’s cafeteria incident. The words on the page pull me in, silencing the mockery that still lingers in the halls of Royal Heights. Even after a year, most students see me as the villain, a stuck-up rich girl who deserves their scorn.

Lost in thought, I round a corner and collide with someone. My books scatter across the floor. I drop to my knees, muttering a quick “Thanks” as the other person helps gather them. When I look up, my heart stumbles. It’s Rory.

Her grey eyes meet mine, and she freezes, the book in her hand slipping to the ground. Irritation flashes across her face. She stands, turning to leave without a word.

“Rory, wait,” I blurt, my voice trembling. She stops but doesn’t face me. “How long are you going to avoid me? I miss you. I miss my best friend.”

Her fists clench at her sides, her back rigid. “I’m sorry,” I continue, my voice cracking. “I’m so sorry for everything. I didn’t mean to hurt you. If I had known—if I had known about your feelings for Tyler—”

“Enough, Luna,” she snaps, whipping around. Her jaw is tight, her eyes blazing with anger that hasn’t dulled in a year. “I don’t want to hear it anymore.” She storms off, leaving me rooted in the hallway, pain blooming in my chest.

I want my best friend back, but my sacrifice—saying no to Tyler, pushing him away to spare her feelings—wasn’t enough. The damage is done, and Rory’s hatred is a wound that won’t heal.

---

The next morning, I’m at the chemistry lab, paired with Max for our experiment. I settle at our assigned desk, the equipment already laid out. Max strides in, his lab coat on, and I hand him gloves and goggles with a small nod. “Thanks,” he says, his voice casual.

I keep my responses minimal, hyper-aware of the glances from other students. Max’s presence has already drawn more eyes to me, and I’m not eager to fuel their gossip. The lab assistant guides us through the procedure: reacting metals with acids. I place metal pieces into a test tube while Max mixes water and acid in another. When it’s time to combine them, I glance at him, silently asking if he wants the honors.

“Go ahead,” he says, leaning back.

I invert the metal tube over the acid, careful and precise. Max watches, but his gaze isn’t on the reaction—it’s on me. Even as I insert a flaming splint to test the gas produced, his eyes linger. I clear my throat, uncomfortable. Isn’t he supposed to be noting the results?

Flipping open my notebook, I try to shift focus. “Have you figured out the balanced equation for this reaction?” I ask, jotting down formulas.

Max sighs, opening his book, but his attention drifts back to me. He props his chin on his hand, those emerald eyes glinting with amusement. “Are you fond of being late?”

I blink, caught off guard. His smirk grows. “Yesterday,” he clarifies. “You helped me find our class. We could’ve made it on time, but you lagged behind. Why’d you make yourself late?”

My mind scrambles. I can’t exactly tell him I avoid attention like it’s a plague, that being seen with him would stir up trouble. “I had to go to the restroom,” I lie.

He frowns, unconvinced. “You were in a rush until I asked for directions. And you didn’t look like you’d been hurrying when you got to class. Do you hate Mrs. Smith’s class?”

He’s too observant for his own good. I dodge the question, focusing on the assignment. “Do you usually ignore someone when they talk to you?” he teases, his tone light.

I glance at him, forcing a weak smile. “For your information, Max, I like being late. And no, I don’t hate her class.”

His eyebrows shoot up, and I add, “There’s no reason. I’m just… weird.” I hope that shuts him down. Befriending him would only complicate things.

Max throws his head back and laughs, the sound rich and infectious, drawing every eye in the room. My cheeks burn as I realize we’re the center of attention. He looks even better when he laughs, and I hate myself for noticing. “You’re funny,” he says, biting back a smile.

I zip my lips, determined to stay quiet for the rest of the session. But Max isn’t done. “Do you know any fun extracurriculars around here?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Any teachers I should watch out for, besides Mrs. Smith?” he teases.

I shrug, scribbling answers.

“Can you tie your hair with that length?”

I freeze, staring at him. My shoulder-length brown hair? Really? “Guns and Roses or Nirvana?” he continues, rapid-fire.

I sigh, itching to say Guns and Roses but holding back. Then he hits me with, “Can we be friends?”

The question blindsides me, but I keep my eyes on the paper, pretending I didn’t hear. He notices my silence, his tone cooling. “I guess you’re right. You’re weird.”

The words sting, but I’m used to it. Everyone here thinks I’m an arrogant bitch, the untouchable daughter of a billionaire and a superstar. I don’t correct him. Let him think what he wants.

I slam my pen down, grab the test tubes, and dump their contents into the designated sink. Max takes them to wash, but I realize I forgot one. In my haste, I fumble it, spilling silver nitrate onto my bare hand—no gloves. I yelp as the tube shatters on the floor, the chemical burning my skin.

“Shit,” Max curses, his eyes on my hand. He scans the room. “Where’s the lab assistant?”

She’s gone, of course. Typical. Max turns to the group beside us. “Luna spilled the chemical on her skin.”

They ignore him, brushing it off. Max frowns, clearly confused by their indifference. The other groups look away, unbothered. My safety means nothing to them.

I search for distilled water, but the nearby containers are empty or in use. “What the hell are you doing?” Max snaps, grabbing my arm and pulling me to a sink. He turns on the tap, guiding my hand under the water.

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” I insist, more to myself than him.

“It’s silver nitrate, you fool,” he hisses, his large hand enveloping mine as he scrubs the chemical away. A jolt of electricity shoots through me at his touch, my heart racing for reasons beyond the burn.

Silver nitrate stains skin brown for days, but that’s not what’s got my pulse hammering. It’s Max—his concern, his hand on mine, his presence. I try to focus on the water, not the warmth of his grip, as the room around us fades into the background.