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But because he's him.

My first kiss, my first love. My first… everything.

"I wish my friends looked at me like that," Dylan mutters, arching one brow my way like I'm supposed to apologize. Like she knows more than she does.

"He wasn't looking at me like anything," I admit, even though it hurts.

"Oh, it was definitely something." She narrows her eyes like she can't quite put her finger on it.

"Yeah, sure."

Something like regret or disappointment. Anger. Hurt.

"Homesick, maybe," she finishes, pointing to the iced coffee tab and smiling at the man.

I brush her off, watching him grab a plastic cup and flood it with the caffeine I was so desperate for five minutes ago.

But the word sticks.

Homesick.

Because that doesn't sound like the frustration or bitterness I expected—not exactly.

It sounds like missing something—someone. Even if you don't want to. Even if you're fighting it.

The thought makes my pulse kick up, sudden and unwelcome, and I hate how fast my body reacts to the possibility—to the slight chance—that Jace Holloway might miss me too.

"You want one?" Dylan asks as she takes her coffee.

I swallow, blinking. "Uh, sure," I stutter.

But the truth is, I don't really need it.

Not anymore.

I'm more awake now than I've been all day.

Lenny

Winter of Sophomore Year at Mage Hollow High

Walking past the impressions etched into the wall, I stop in front of a display of insects embedded in amber. I lean in, my skin crawling as I try to decide which is worse—the mosquito or the cicada.

The resin catches the light, and for a second, I swear I see a wing twitch. A shiver runs through me as I yank myself back, then lean in again slightly just to double check.

"Lenny."

My name floats across the room, saving me from my own curiosity. It's not loud, but it doesn't need to be. Adults muttering to each other, a baby cooing from a stroller, one rather obnoxious gum chewer standing just a few feet away—none of them stand a chance against the heavy whisper that moves through the room.

Him.

I freeze at the sound—just like these gross bugs—before turning toward it.

Jace is already weaving through the exhibit, headed my way. His hands are tucked into his light baggy jeans, his toned muscles snug beneath his favorite baby blue t-shirt. His eyes—that same color—dart around suspiciously like he's looking for something.

Or avoiding it.

"What are you doing?" I ask when he reaches me, glancing behind him for other students I recognize. "You're supposed to stay with your group."