Penelope didn't sleep much that night. She tried. She lay in bed and counted sheep and even played one of those ambient rain sounds, but nothing calmed the thunderstorm in her chest.
She kept replaying Marc's smirk, Julian's clenched jaw, the apple, the heat rising in her face like wildfire. She was slipping—losing control over a heart she'd worked so hard to guard.
Across town, the night painted Blackridge in moody shadows. Streetlamps buzzed like broken lullabies, and beneath them, Marc drove his motorcycle with a strange kind of stillness in his eyes.
He wasn't used to wanting anything.
But Penelope...
She was a problem he didn't want to solve. He wanted to feel her. The fire, the resistance, the rage that masked tenderness. It pulled him like gravity.
He parked by the lake, where the woods whispered and the stars breathed secrets only the broken could hear.
---
The next day, Penelope arrived at school wearing red lipstick.
Not bright red—war paint red. Power red.
It was a message.
To Marc.
To Julian.
To herself.
No more tiptoeing through her own emotions.
She caught eyes in the hallway, and the whispers floated through the air like perfume.
"She's trying too hard."
"She's changing for him."
"She'll be just another name he forgets."
Let them talk.
Veronica met her at her locker, eyebrows raised. "You look dangerous."
"That's the goal," Penelope replied, flashing a grin.
"You're going to kill Marc."
"I hope so."
---
At lunch, the table dynamics had shifted.
Marc wasn't there. Neither was Julian.
Penelope sat with Veronica, who had that dreamy-but-trying-not-to-smile look on her face.
"Well?" Penelope teased, popping a grape into her mouth. "You look like someone kissed you under the stars."
Veronica blushed. "Maybe someone did."
Penelope leaned in. "And?"
"And... it felt like the rest of the world blurred. Just me, him, and the quiet between heartbeats."
Penelope clutched her chest. "Okay, that was disgustingly romantic. I love it."
Veronica giggled, then looked at her closely. "What about you? Any progress with Julian or Marc?"
Penelope sighed. "Julian is... sweet. But Marc is chaos. And somehow, chaos makes me feel alive."
"Be careful, Pen," Veronica warned gently. "Chaos is beautiful until it burns everything down."
Penelope nodded. "I know. But maybe I'm tired of being fireproof."
---
Scott and Veronica met again that afternoon, tucked away in the quiet of the old library.
They sat side by side on the window seat, surrounded by dust and sunbeams and books older than either of them.
"I used to come here with my mom," Scott said softly. "She loved the smell of old paper."
Veronica glanced sideways. "You talk about her like she's still around."
"She is," he said, tapping his chest. "In here."
Veronica rested her head on his shoulder. "I wish I'd met her."
"She would've loved you," Scott whispered.
Veronica closed her eyes. "Tell me something no one else knows about you."
He was silent for a moment.
"When I was fourteen, I ran away."
Veronica looked up. "What?"
"Just for a night," he said. "I thought no one cared. Thought I could vanish and the world wouldn't notice. But then... my dad found me."
"And?"
"He hugged me so hard I couldn't breathe. Didn't yell. Just cried. That's when I realized—sometimes love doesn't shout. Sometimes it just shows up."
Veronica kissed him then. Not out of passion, but out of quiet gratitude. For his vulnerability. For staying.
---
Later that evening, Penelope wandered through the woods behind her house. The sky was painted in shades of lavender and gold, and her thoughts spun like ribbon in the wind.
She heard the hum of an engine.
Turned.
Marc.
He stepped off his motorcycle slowly, like a scene unfolding in slow motion. His black leather jacket glinted in the dusk. His dark curls were windswept, and his eyes... those damn eyes.
"I've been looking for you," he said.
Penelope crossed her arms. "Why?"
"Because you're the only thing in this town that doesn't bore me."
"Charming," she muttered, starting to walk away.
But he grabbed her wrist—gentle, not forceful.
"Wait."
She turned, fire in her eyes. "What do you want from me, Marc?"
He studied her, unusually serious. "The truth?"
"Always."
"I want you to hate me," he said.
She blinked. "What?"
"I want you to hate me so I don't fall. So I don't let you in."
Penelope's voice cracked. "Then stop chasing me."
"I can't," he said, stepping closer. "Because you're the only thing that scares me more than losing control."
She swallowed hard. "Why do you do this? Flirt, tease, then run cold?"
He looked like he was breaking. "Because when I look at you, I see the parts of myself I lost. And that terrifies me."
For a long second, neither of them moved.
Then Penelope did something reckless.
She kissed him.
It wasn't gentle.
It wasn't careful.
It was raw. Hungry. Like smashing two broken pieces together and hoping they'd somehow make something whole.
When she pulled away, breathless, she whispered, "You don't get to run now."
Marc touched her cheek. "I wasn't planning to."
---
Meanwhile, Julian watched from the hill, heartbreak etched into the lines of his face.
He turned and walked away, silence wrapping around him like a cloak.
Because some love stories don't end in fireworks.
Some end in silence and unspoken goodbyes.