Monday Morning

Blake pulled into the parking lot, the low rumble of his engine cutting through the early morning quiet. He parked neatly between two sedans and killed the ignition, slinging his backpack over one shoulder as he stepped out. Across the lot, Ethan and Nick were already waiting by the school’s front steps.

“Hey,” Ethan called out, “finally decided to show up?”

“Fashionably late,” Blake said with a wink as he approached.

That got a laugh from the trio.

“Didn’t know that was your thing, Blake,” Nick teased, nudging his cousin lightly with his elbow. “Should I expect you to start showing up in sunglasses and a velvet blazer next?”

“Idiot,” Blake muttered with a smirk, shaking his head. The smile on his face made it clear it wasn’t serious.

The three of them moved together toward the school entrance, their steps easy, shoulders brushing now and then as students trickled in around them. Resin Grove High loomed ahead—red brick, old ivy, and decades of muted pride in every worn stair and sun-faded banner. It was too early for the hallways to be loud, but not quiet enough to feel peaceful.

Blake yawned. “I hate Mondays.”

Nick raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”

“I’ve got English first period,” Blake groaned. “Literature. At 8:00 a.m. Whose idea was that?”

Ethan grinned. “I dunno. Someone who wanted you to suffer?”

Blake ran a hand through his hair, glancing toward the front doors like they were gates to a cage. “And I’ve gotta work on that project with Ashbourne.”

Nick let out a low whistle. “Oof. Ice Queen at sunrise? You sure you’ll make it out alive?”

“Doubt it,” Blake muttered. “If I freeze to **** in there, tell Coach I died doing something I didn’t give a damn about.”

“Like your grade,” Ethan offered.

“Exactly.”

The bell rang overhead—shrill, unforgiving.

“Time for the gallows,” Blake said, pushing open the heavy front doors. The three of them stepped inside, swallowed by the rhythm of another school day.

The hallway buzzed with the usual Monday drag, heavy steps, yawns half-stifled, and lockers slamming. Blake, Ethan, and Nick made their way toward the English wing.

“Remind me again why English has to be first period?” Blake muttered.

“Because suffering builds character,” Ethan deadpanned.

Nick smirked. “Tell that to my GPA.”

As they turned the corner, Alyssa Carrington and Vivi Ashbourne appeared ahead, walking in the same direction. Alyssa’s high ponytail swayed as she spotted them. Her grin widened — all spark and trouble.

“Look who’s here,” she said, voice smooth, loud enough to carry but not enough to sound obvious. “Didn’t think I’d see my biggest fan today, Blake.”

Blake stopped short. “Seriously? I’m not your fan.”

Ethan blinked. “What?”

Nick glanced between them. “Wait, what does that mean?”

Alyssa leaned against the locker closest to her, eyes twinkling. “Just saying — some people know how to leave an impression. Blake happens to be very good with his hands.”

Blake stiffened. “Alyssa—”

“What?” she asked, all innocence. “I meant the way you handled— what was it— the basketball Saturday? I’m surprised the hoop managed to survive all those shots.” She bit back a smile, gaze unwavering. “Real talent. Had me seeing stars.”

Ethan choked. “Basketball?”

Nick was looking as confused as ever. “Are we talking about actual basketball or…?”

Blake sighed through his nose and kept walking, clearly done with the conversation. “Don’t you guys have class?”

“Not as exciting as yours,” Alyssa quipped, already turning away with a laugh. Her hand brushed lightly against Vivi’s arm as they continued down the hall, but Vivi didn’t look back, just kept walking, lips pressed around her straw.

Ethan and Nick lingered in place for a beat longer.

“Okay,” Ethan muttered. “So that wasn’t nothing.”

Nick nodded slowly. “Blake. You’re telling us nothing happened?”

“I’m telling you to shut up,” Blake called over his shoulder, still walking.

They split at the next hallway. Nick and Ethan veered left, still arguing about the implications. Blake slowed as he reached the English door — where Vivi was already waiting.

“You coming in?” Blake asked.

“Unfortunately,” Vivi responded.

The classroom buzzed with the low hum of students settling in. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead. Ms. Keane stood at her desk, thumbing through a thick paperback as she spoke over the noise.

“Reminder, people, the first part of your project is due Wednesday,” she called out. “Today’s the last class you’ll have to work on it. I suggest using your time wisely.”

Blake dropped his bag beside the desk and slid into the seat next to Vivi.

“You look thrilled to be here,” Blake muttered, pulling out his notes.

Vivi didn’t answer right away. Her eyes flicked over him once, from the scuffed leather bracelet on his wrist to his messy hair. She blinked, catching herself, and **** her gaze back to the page.

Why am I even looking? she thought. Focus. It’s just a project.

But Alyssa’s words echoed in her mind: “He’s sooo good… handled Riley and me perfectly.” The way Alyssa said it, like she was still basking in it, made Vivi’s cheeks warm unexpectedly. She shoved the thought away, but it kept creeping back, distracting her.

“Just picturing Romeo having a better Monday than me,” she said lightly, flipping a page.

Blake snorted. “Doubt it. He was a mess.”

“Tragic,” she said, almost absently. “But dramatic. That’s what made it Baroque.”

They worked in silence for a few minutes. Blake scribbled something in the margin of their shared worksheet.

“See,” he said, nudging the page toward her, “the contrast between love and **** is **** here. That’s the point. Baroque thrives on theatrical opposites.”

Vivi didn’t answer. Instead, her eyes drifted to his hand — the way it moved smoothly over the paper, confident and steady. She bit the end of her pen, suddenly aware of how close they were sitting.

Get a grip, she told herself, but her heart beat a little faster.

He glanced up.

She was caught staring, cheeks warming. She straightened too fast.

“Merde,” she muttered under her breath, flipping to the next page of notes like it would erase the moment.

Blake raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, was that French for ‘great insight, Blake’?”

Vivi shot him a flat look, but her ears were faintly pink.

“I was thinking,” she said coolly, “about how Romeo’s language shifts as his desperation grows. It’s tonal whiplash.”

“Right,” Blake said, unconvinced but amused. “Whiplash.”

She didn’t answer. Just leaned closer to jot something down. The scent of her perfume was subtle but sharp, something citrusy cut with vanilla. Blake blinked and looked back at the page.

“Okay,” he said after a few more notes. “That covers the last of the analysis.”

Vivi tapped her pen once before setting it down. “Good.”

Blake stretched his arms behind his head, spine cracking faintly. “Now we get to write a Baroque poem. That’ll be fun.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I’m not,” he said. “Just... cautiously optimistic.”

Vivi turned slightly toward him, head tilted. “You’re better at this than I thought.”

He looked over at her. “You mean, not just a dumb jock?”

She met his gaze evenly. “I didn’t say that.”

“But you _thought _it.”

Her lips curved. “I plead the fifth.”

Blake leaned back in his chair. “Well, that answers my question.”

The bell rang, cutting through the moment. Ms. Keane raised her voice above the scrape of chairs.

“Thursday. That’s the deadline. Don’t come crying if you forget.”

Vivi stood, tucking her notebook under one arm.

Blake rose beside her. “Tomorrow evening at the library?”

She gave him a small, unreadable smile. “I’ll see. I’ll text you the details later.”