That was when something in her snapped—not loudly, not dramatically, but with a quiet, irreversible finality.
Her tray hit the table with a dull clatter, the sound barely noticeable in the chaos around them, but the movement itself was enough to draw a few glances from nearby students. Before Trevor could finish his sentence, Lila closed the distance between them, her small hand gripping the front of his shirt, fingers bunching the fabric tightly.
“Say it again,” she said.
She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.
There was something in her tone—low, steady, and completely devoid of hesitation—that made the space around them seem to contract, the noise of the cafeteria fading just enough for the moment to take shape.
Trevor blinked, clearly not expecting this, his smirk faltering as he looked down at her. “What are you gonna do?” he shot back, though there was a flicker of uncertainty behind the bravado now.
“Just say it,” Lila repeated, her grip tightening slightly.
For a brief second, it seemed like he might back down, like the situation might dissolve into something less volatile. But pride, especially at that age, has a way of overriding better judgment.
“Daniel Carter,” Trevor said, the name coming out sharper this time, laced with mockery.
That was all it took.
