The gym pulses with music, colored lights slicing across the crowd, but Sionel barely registers any of it. He stands at the edge of the makeshift dance floor—tie hanging loose, jaw tense, trying not to look for Elora and failing miserably. Across the room, she catches his gaze, pale blue dress clinging to her curves, cheeks flushed with adrenaline and uncertainty. Her smile flickers, hopeful and haunted all at once. They drift closer with every song, the magnetic field between them growing impossible to ignore.

A flash of movement: Calise, severe in black slacks and a blood-red blouse, leans in a far corner. Her eyes are dark and vigilant, never quite landing anywhere for long—except on Sionel. She wraps her arms around herself, posture rigid, a fortress braced against hope. She’s watching them, she always does, even when she pretends not to care. Draeya passes her with a paint-stained hand, drapes an arm around her shoulders; their heads bow together in conversation, Draeya’s hair a wild ink-blot against Calise’s straight, dark bob.

Suddenly, Elora is in front of Sionel, breaths shallow, voice trembling. “I can’t do this—I can’t pretend,” she whispers. Her hands clench the fabric of his shirt, knuckles white. Sionel’s reply is a strangled groan, frustration warring with longing. “Then don’t.” He takes her wrist, fingers sliding down to her palm, and they slip into the shadows behind the storage room door—heartbeats galloping, nerves stretched thin.

Inside, it’s dark, cluttered with forgotten equipment and the heat of longing barely contained. Elora’s hands—so soft, so desperate—claw at his chest as their mouths find each other. Sionel lifts her to the wall, pinning her with his body; her skirt rides up, his hand on her bare thigh. Elora moans, biting his lip, trembling as he presses into her, hard, needy. She wraps her legs around him, bodies colliding in a wild, hungry rush. They are both gasping, whispering apologies, confessions, old wounds torn open and bleeding into this moment.

Just beyond the door, Calise stands frozen. Her eyes are wide, pupils blown with hurt. She watches only long enough to understand, then stumbles away, face set in cold fury, arms hugging herself tighter. She says nothing, just disappears into the emptier, darker corridors, breath ragged and unforgiving.

Calise finds Draeya in the art room, white dress shirt discarded for a tank top streaked with cobalt and vermilion. Draeya’s lips part, question on her tongue, but Calise just pulls her close. The kiss is awkward at first—then desperate, pained, mouths fierce and seeking. Draeya shudders; Calise’s hands dig into her hips, needing to be anchored, needing to forget. Paint smears onto skin, and for once, neither woman cares about the mess. Draeya exhales, shaky, letting her defenses dissolve as Calise’s vulnerability cracks through the surface.

Afterward, cloaked in sweat and paint and silence, neither can look away. Draeya’s thumb traces Calise’s cheek, awkward and earnest. “You don’t have to be strong right now,” she says. Calise almost laughs—almost crumples, but just presses her lips to Draeya’s shoulder instead, the closest thing to surrender she can manage.

The dance ends. Elora slides out of the storage room, hair wild, eyeliner smeared. She finds Sionel hunched by a window, face buried in his hands. She sits beside him, seething with aftershocks. “You deserve better than me,” she says, voice brittle. “I ruin everything I touch.” Sionel turns, pain radiating from him, but she’s already gone—into the blur of music, into Cai’s waiting arms.

Across the school, Draeya checks her phone. Her jaw tightens, all softness gone: an all-school email from “Anonymous” blares from the screen. “Ask her what happened after hours in Studio 4. Some art can’t be erased.”

As Sionel’s phone buzzes with the same message, panic floods through him—a realization that everything is about to unravel.

To be continued...