Semua Bab To the two boys I like: Burn me the safe way: Bab 1 - Bab 10

Elena woke before the alarm, heart already racing like she’d been running all night.She stared at the ceiling, replaying the alley over and over: the crack of bone, the scar slicing through that dark brow, the way those eyes had pinned her for one frozen second before he vanished. She hadn’t told her mother. Hadn’t told anyone. What would she even say? Some stranger beat up three guys for me and then disappeared like a ghost? It sounded insane. It felt insane.She dragged herself out of bed. The navy blazer hung stiff on the closet door, the plaid skirt still creased from the packaging. She dressed mechanically—white shirt buttoned to the top, tie knotted too tight, hair pulled into a low ponytail. Every movement felt borrowed, like she was wearing someone else’s skin.Claire was already in the kitchen, coffee brewing, forcing brightness into her voice. “You look ready. Nervous?”Elena shrugged. “It’s just school.”Claire handed her a travel mug of tea. “You’ll be fine. They’re expec

Noah’s fist froze mid-air. Sweat dripped from his brow, catching the moonlight like shards of glass. His chest rose and fell hard, eyes narrowing on the shadow where Elena stood.“What the hell are you doing here?” His voice cut through the quiet lot—low, rough, edged with something dangerous.Elena’s mouth went dry. She stepped forward into the weak spill of the floodlight, heart slamming against her ribs. “I was… just passing by.”He let out a short, humorless laugh. “Passing by. At one in the morning. In an empty lot behind closed shops.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist, then reached down and gripped the hem of his soaked black T-shirt. In one smooth motion he peeled it off, tossing it onto the heavy bag.Elena’s breath hitched. She couldn’t help it. His torso was carved—lean muscle shifting under bruised skin, fresh red marks blooming across his ribs, old scars crisscrossing like a map of every fight he’d refused to lose. Sweat gleamed on his abs, trailing down th

Elena walked back to the bonfire with sand in her shoes and Noah's warmth still pressed into her skin like something she'd never asked for and couldn't give back.She almost turned around twice.Didn't.The fire had gotten bigger—someone had thrown on more driftwood—and the group was louder, drunker, easier. A girl was doing a terrible impression of their Spanish teacher and everyone was losing it. Normal. God, so embarrassingly, achingly normal. Elena stood at the edge of the circle and blinked at it all like she'd just surfaced from underwater."Hey." Liam materialized at her elbow, appearing from nowhere the way he always seemed to. He handed her a drink—just lemonade, she realized, fizzy and cold, like he'd somehow known. "Where'd you disappear to?""Just needed some air." She took the cup. Wrapped both hands around it. "It got loud."He nodded. Didn't push. But his eyes moved over her face, slow, like he was cataloguing something—the flushed cheeks, maybe. The slightly too-delibe

Elena almost ate lunch alone again.She'd gotten good at making it look intentional—picking a spot near the window, opening a book, wearing the expression of someone who preferred their own company. It wasn't entirely a lie. People were exhausting. Conversation required energy she kept running out of before noon.But the tray landed across from her before she'd even opened the book."You're the British girl, right?"Elena looked up.The girl who'd sat down had long dark hair falling perfectly straight over one shoulder, sharp eyes that were already assessing her with the particular efficiency of someone who decided things fast and rarely changed their mind. She was wearing the uniform like it was a choice rather than a requirement—blazer open, one sleeve pushed up, small gold hoops catching the light. Effortlessly put together in a way that didn't look like effort at all."JoJo Reyes," the girl said, stabbing a fork into her salad. "Before you ask—yes I know everyone, yes I will tell

Elina made a decision in the bathroom mirror that morning.Not dramatic. No internal speech, no moment of cinematic clarity. Just her, toothbrush, seven-fifteen am, looking at her own face and thinking: stop it. Stop dissecting stairwell silences. Stop cataloguing the exact way his jaw tightens when he's holding something back. Stop replaying four seconds of contact—barely even contact, knuckles against a cheekbone, almost nothing—like it meant something he'd confirmed it meant.He'd walked up the stairs. Not after her. Up.She spat, rinsed, made herself eat breakfast, left the house before her mother could ask how she was.The answer was badly, but that wasn't new.Liam was at her locker before she got there. He did that sometimes—arrived first, leaned against the adjacent one, scrolling his phone with the unhurried ease of someone who had nowhere better to be. He looked up when he heard her and smiled. Immediate. Unguarded. No calculation in it."You eat breakfast?" he asked."Yes."