Chapter 2 : I''ll Deal With You at Home

 Tara was still talking about Jack as they settled into their seats in Mrs. Henderson''s English class, the scent of old books and lemon-scented cleaner filling the air. "I can''t believe a guy like Jack Miller carries chocolate around. It''s so... unexpected. Sweet, literally."

 Emma''s fingers closed around the Hershey''s Kiss in her pocket, the foil wrapper now soft and pliant from her body heat, the chocolate inside likely reduced to a melted mess. She traced the familiar shape with her thumb, the crinkling sound muffled by denim. She was only half-listening to Tara, her mind caught in the memory of Jack''s smirk as he''d tossed it to her—that infuriating, knowing look that suggested he understood exactly how flustered she was.

 When Tara called her name twice without response, Emma finally blinked and focused. "Sorry, what?"

 "I asked if you like Jack," Tara repeated, leaning closer with curious eyes.

 Emma''s response was immediate and defensive. "Like him? As if. There''s a line of girls waiting to confess to him. I''m just... observing."

 Tara shook her head, a dreamy expression on her face. "It''s not even about liking him like that. It''s admiration. Jack''s perfect—handsome, athletic, valedictorian, student council president, basketball team captain. What window did God even close for him?"

 Emma had no rebuttal because every word Tara spoke was painfully true. Jack Miller was Oak Ridge High''s undisputed golden boy: eighteen years old, six-foot-one of lean muscle, with natural sandy blonde hair that made teachers conveniently forget the "no unnatural hair colors" rule. His smile was a weapon that could disarm teachers and students alike, and his list of achievements read like something out of a college admissions brochure—valedictorian, student council president, basketball team captain, volunteer at the local animal shelter. The boy was practically a saint on paper.

 The only problem was, no one knew the real Jack. The Jack who was all sharp edges and quiet intensity beneath the polished exterior, who saved his most cutting remarks and teasing smiles for her alone. The publicly perfect version was a meticulously constructed facade, and she was the only one who''d seen the cracks.

 Her backpack vibrated against her leg. Emma slipped her phone out just enough to see the screen.

 **WildDog**: Not handsome? What''s wrong with looking like a girl?

 Emma switched her phone to silent and fired back a meme: a cartoon cat spraying soda at the camera with the caption "I''ll annihilate you."

 Jack''s response came almost immediately: **You know, Emma, if you directed even a fraction of that attitude toward anyone else, you wouldn''t be such a social anxiety case.**

 She understood exactly what he meant. *Selectively brave.* It was their private joke, their unspoken truth. With everyone else, she was a bundle of nerves—tongue-tied, awkward, constantly overthinking every interaction. But with Jack, she transformed. She became bold, sarcastic, unafraid to push back. It was as if he drew out a version of herself that existed only in his presence, a version she both cherished and resented.

 Annoyed, Emma shoved her phone back into her bag and ignored the subsequent messages that buzzed against her textbooks. After a few minutes of radio silence, the vibrations stopped.

 "Jack, homeroom''s starting," someone called from the hallway.

 Jack''s voice, slightly muffled, responded, "Be right there."

 A few minutes later, as Emma pretended to review her summer reading notes, she felt a presence outside the classroom window. She glanced up and met Jack''s gaze through the glass. Before anyone could notice, she rolled her eyes dramatically and dropped her head back to her notebook.

 Jack almost laughed out loud.

 **WildDog**: I''ll deal with you at home.

 Emma didn''t see the message until passing period. She responded with another meme: a muscular man beckoning with a finger, captioned "Come at me."

 The first day of senior year passed in what Emma considered a silent battle of wills with Jack—a battle only she was aware of.

 ---

 After the final bell, Emma and Tara walked to the bus stop together. Jack was already there, leaning against the shelter with his headphones in, looking every bit the aloof popular kid.

 Emma averted her eyes and focused on Tara''s complaints about the mountain of homework they''d already been assigned.

 Ten minutes later, the bus arrived with a hiss of brakes. Tara stopped mid-sentence and pulled Emma forward as students surged toward the doors. Emma''s backpack strap slipped off her shoulder, and she barely caught it before it hit the ground.

 The late summer heat transformed the bus into a mobile sauna, despite the weak air conditioning that wheezed pathetically, doing little more than circulating warm, stale air. Emma found herself standing near the back door, her palm slick with sweat as she clutched a cold metal pole for balance. The bus lurched forward, and she stumbled, her shoulder bumping against someone''s backpack.

 Then the smell hit her—a thick, cloying combination of ripe body odor and something distinctly, unpleasantly sour from the boy standing too close behind her. Her stomach clenched in protest. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, could sense the way he shifted closer with each turn of the bus.

 Tara caught her eye and made a subtle gagging face, then took a deep breath and decided to endure it.

 Emma was trapped in a miserable calculus—was enduring the smell worse than the social agony of pushing through the crowd to find another spot?—when suddenly the offensive odor was replaced by something clean, crisp, and unmistakably familiar. Sandalwood and cedar, with a hint of something citrusy. A large, familiar hand wrapped around the pole just above hers, long fingers brushing against her knuckles in a touch so light it could have been accidental.

 But it wasn''t.

 Jack stood behind her, his broad shoulders and taller frame creating a solid barrier between her and the source of the smell. He was turned slightly, chatting with a teammate about basketball practice schedules, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the space between them. He acted as if this proximity was completely accidental, as if he hadn''t deliberately positioned himself to rescue her.

 The other boy had been gently but firmly displaced somewhere deeper in the crowd. After a few minutes, when the tension in her shoulders had begun to ease, Emma dared to take a deep, careful breath. Sandalwood and cedar—Jack''s signature scent, the one she''d known since they were kids experimenting with cologne samples—filled her lungs like a lifeline. It was more than just a pleasant smell; it was safety. It was home. And that realization was more dangerous than any body odor.

 ---

 Tara got off at her stop fifteen minutes later with a wave. Emma had four more stops to go, about another twenty minutes.

 As the bus emptied, the tension in Emma''s shoulders eased. She loosened her grip on the pole but stayed put, even though seats had opened up. Moving would mean walking past strangers, making eye contact, possibly having to speak. It was easier to stay where she was.

 The strap of her backpack tugged gently. Jack''s voice, low enough that only she could hear it, whispered near her ear, "Little coward."

 Emma wanted to turn and glare, to elbow him in the ribs for the "little coward" comment. But she remembered their agreement—the one she''d insisted on, the one that felt increasingly like a self-imposed prison. At school, and in any public space where they might be seen by classmates, they were strangers. Two people who just happened to live on the same street. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, the sharp pain a distraction from the urge to respond. She shifted away, putting a few precious inches between them, every line of her body screaming *don''t talk to me, don''t look at me, don''t remind me of what we''re pretending not to be*.

 When the bus reached their stop, Emma hurried off without looking back. This particular stop rarely had Oak Ridge students, which meant their secret was safe.

 She''d only taken a few steps when Jack caught up, falling into stride beside her. He reached out and tugged playfully at a strand of her hair. "Emma, still ignoring me?"

 Emma whirled around, stood on her toes, and grabbed a handful of his hair in retaliation. She didn''t hold back, yanking hard enough to make him wince.

 "Ow! Trying to kill your future husband?" Jack complained, rubbing his scalp.

 "Don''t say stupid things!" Emma''s face flushed crimson. She shoved his shoulder, trying to create distance.

 Jack didn''t seem bothered. He just closed the gap again, leaning down to murmur, "Still mad about earlier?"

 He shouldn''t have brought it up. At the mention of "earlier," Emma''s ears burned.

 The incident he was referring to had happened two days ago, when her parents were out of town and she''d gone to his house for lunch. They''d known each other since they were three—their families were close, and childcare swaps were common.

 But this time, she hadn''t warned him she was coming. She''d walked right up to his bedroom door, knocked, and tried the handle.

 Locked.

 There''d been scrambling sounds from inside, then Jack''s voice, slightly strained: "I''m not dressed, give me a minute."

 Five minutes later, he''d opened the door. His room had been oddly cold despite the AC running full blast—because the window was wide open. Jack had looked flushed, sweat beading on his forehead, the drawstring of his athletic shorts untied.

 "Took you long enough to get dressed," she''d commented.

 "You should''ve told me you were coming," he''d deflected.

 Then she''d noticed the smell—something unfamiliar and musky. And on the hardwood floor near his bed, a single drop of milky white liquid.

 The realization had hit her like a physical blow. She''d taken health class. She''d accidentally clicked on enough internet ads to know what it was.

 "Jack, you�? she''d started.

 His hand had clamped over her mouth before she could finish, his ears turning bright red. "Don''t say it!"

 She''d blinked, then sniffed delicately. When he''d pulled his hand away, she''d asked quietly, "...Jack, did you not wash your hands?"