Wicked Game

W.G

I walked toward the girls' bathroom, trying to ignore the weight of my bag and the ache in my shoulders. That's when I saw him.

Him.

He wasn't smiling. Not that it would've mattered. He leaned against the wall, effortless and impossible to ignore. Another girl was in front of him, talking too much, laughing too loud, desperate for his attention. He nodded at her words, listening without a hint of amusement-cold, calculated.

Then his eyes landed on me.

Green, sharp, dangerous. He smirked. Just a little, but enough. Enough to make the blood in my veins run colder. The kind of smirk that promised he saw everything-everything I was thinking, everything I was hiding.

I stiffened. Fingers tightening around my bag strap. I didn't want to look at him, didn't want to acknowledge him. But he had already claimed the moment, made his presence known, and the corner of his mouth that lifted into that smirk said one thing clearly: he knew.

And he was enjoying it.