Rody Lamoree leaned back against his locker, his broad shoulders pressing into the cold metal as he scanned the bustling hallway. The cacophony of voices, laughter, and the clattering of lockers filled the air, but his focus was on the small, folded note that had just slipped out from the slats of his locker and landed softly at his feet.
It was the third one this week.
His eyes darted around, searching for any sign of the person who had left it. But as always, there was no one. Just a sea of students moving in waves, none of them paying him any mind-none, except for one.
Rody bent down and picked up the note, his fingers brushing over the smooth paper. The handwriting was the same as always-neat, delicate, almost painfully precise. He didn't need to open it to know who it was from. Vincent Charbonneau.
Vincent was a name that circulated in hushed whispers around the school. People talked about him, but no one really knew him. He was the kind of person who slipped through the cracks, present but never truly seen. Pale and slight, with dark hair that always seemed to fall into his equally dark eyes, Vincent was an enigma. He kept to himself, floating along the edges of social circles, never quite fitting in anywhere.
But Rody noticed him.
Vincent had a habit of staring-long, lingering looks that would follow Rody down the hallway or across the classroom. Rody pretended not to see it, even though he always did. He knew those dark eyes followed him, and though it should have made him uncomfortable, it didn't. If anything, it made him feel... powerful. Desired.
Rody unfolded the note, his eyes scanning the familiar handwriting.
**"I made something special for you today. I hope you enjoy it. Please, meet me after school. By the gym. I'll be waiting."**
There was no signature, but there didn't need to be. Rody's heart gave an involuntary lurch in his chest, though he couldn't quite pin down why. The words were innocent enough, yet there was an undercurrent of something else-something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
He glanced down the hallway again, but Vincent was nowhere to be seen. Probably tucked away in some quiet corner, waiting for Rody to find the next gift, the next note, the next perfectly crafted dish left just for him.
The gifts had started small-a few sketches slipped into his locker, careful drawings of things that seemed so mundane yet carried an eerie level of detail. Then came the notes, soft-spoken confessions of admiration, each one more intimate than the last. Eventually, it was the food-beautifully made, almost too exquisite for a high school kid to whip up. It started with sweets-tiny, delicate pastries that melted on Rody's tongue, leaving him wanting more.
Then came the savory dishes.
Rody wasn't sure when it happened, but at some point, the pastries gave way to more substantial offerings-plates of food that were warm, comforting, and so delicious that Rody couldn't help but devour them in one sitting. Each dish was better than the last, and he found himself craving them, looking forward to what Vincent would leave for him next. There was something about the taste-so rich, so flavorful-that lingered in his mouth long after the meal was gone.
But there was also something unsettling about it all.
Rody had a girlfriend. Manon Vacher, the sweetest girl in the school, the one with the silky brown hair and the lilting voice that filled the choir room. She was everything a guy like Rody could want-beautiful, kind, talented. They'd been dating for nearly a year, and everyone knew they were the perfect couple. But lately, Manon had been distant. She hadn't come to school for weeks, hadn't answered his texts or calls, hadn't given any sign that she still cared.
