The first bell of senior year rang out across Crestwood High like the opening note of a symphony, crisp and deliberate. For most students, it meant the return to early mornings, crowded hallways, and too many assignments. For Noah Harding, it was something else entirely.
It was a signal.
He stood just inside the school's front entrance, watching the familiar chaos unfold. A swirl of backpacks, greetings, locker slams, and excited chatter filled the air, but Noah didn't rush. He never rushed. Timing was everything.
Adjusting the strap of his bag and straightening the collar of his school jacket—navy, with the debate club pin gleaming on the lapel—he finally stepped into the flow. The crowd seemed to shift instinctively, parting without a word. Heads turned. Smiles appeared. Hands raised in greeting.
"Noah!"
"Harding, what's up, man?"
"Captain's back!"
"Noah!"
"Harding, what's up, man?"
"Captain's back!"
He nodded to each with practiced charm, his smile easy but never lazy. That was part of the trick—never letting them see how hard you worked to make it all look effortless.
Truth was, he'd been up since 5:45 a.m. He'd gone for a run through his neighborhood while the sky was still tinged gray, then made himself breakfast—eggs, toast, coffee brewed just the way he liked it. The eggs had been perfect today, slightly runny yolks, pinch of pepper, a garnish of chopped scallions. He'd plated it with a sprig of parsley, smiling quietly to himself before eating.
Not that he'd ever admit that last part. Cooking was something he kept tucked away, hidden behind his polished, perfect image. It didn't fit the narrative: star athlete, debate team champion, student leader. There was no space in that story for Saturday mornings spent fine-tuning puff pastry dough or practicing knife cuts.
He walked through the halls like he owned them because, in some ways, he did. Captain of the soccer team. President of the debate club. The unofficial face of Crestwood High. His name was plastered on trophies and leadership boards alike. The only thing between him and valedictorian was a few dozen tests and one persistent, infuriating complication.
He walked through the halls like he owned them because, in some ways, he did. Captain of the soccer team. President of the debate club. The unofficial face of Crestwood High. His name was plastered on trophies and leadership boards alike. The only thing between him and valedictorian was a few dozen tests and one persistent, infuriating complication.
"Harding! Heard you aced that summer reading essay again," Mark called from across the hall, grinning.
Noah turned, catching the high-five mid-air. "Just trying to stay sharp, man. This year's going to be wild."
Humble. Polished. Approachable.
He'd perfected the role years ago, but the truth lingered underneath. He wasn't trying to stay sharp - he was sharp. Always had been. His color-coded planner was already filled through December. He knew which days to study for AP Calculus, which afternoons were reserved for soccer strategy meetings, and when to revise his college essays. His top choices - Yale, Stanford, Columbia - were already starred in green ink. A separate section outlined his reach schools, even if he didn't really believe in "reaches."
Winning wasn't a rush. It was a rhythm. A way of life.
He adjusted his backpack and turned toward the senior common room. The hallway thinned out, students filtering into their homerooms, leaving behind the scent of fresh notebooks and cafeteria coffee.
The common room door was just ahead when it happened.
That voice.
"Harding. Looking forward to seeing your innovative ideas for the Fall Festival. Jelly beans again, or are we elevating to balloon animals this year?"
He didn't need to turn. That tone—dry, clipped, and laced with just enough disdain to sting—was etched into his memory. He could pick it out in a crowd of hundreds.
Isabelle Chen.
He exhaled slowly, letting the interruption settle. Then he turned, smile still in place, but tighter, more measured now.
There she was, arms crossed, eyebrow raised, posture impeccable. Isabelle stood like a question mark, always slightly skeptical, always waiting to be impressed—and rarely, if ever, satisfied. Her hair was pulled into a precise ponytail, dark eyes shining behind her glasses. She didn't smirk. She didn't glare. She simply looked at him, and somehow that was enough to light a spark of irritation in his chest.
"Chen," he said smoothly, stepping back from the door. "Didn't think you'd miss a chance to throw shade before homeroom."
She tilted her head. "Wouldn't dream of it. I like to start my mornings with a dose of mediocrity. Keeps expectations manageable."
He chuckled, hands slipping casually into his jacket pockets. "That's funny. I thought you started your mornings alphabetizing color-coded binders."
"I do. Right after rewriting your weak council proposals into something vaguely useful."
The corners of his mouth twitched. They weren't enemies. Not really. But if he was the king of Crestwood, Isabelle was the queen—and they'd been in a quiet war for the throne since freshman year.
She was brilliant, organized, and relentless. Top scores. Student council secretary. The girl who made advanced chemistry look like an elective. While Noah burned bright and loud, Isabelle moved in cool precision, always calculating. Always controlled.
They clashed like fire and ice, but somewhere under the sarcasm, Noah knew she respected him. Just like he respected her.
Even if she drove him absolutely insane.
He leaned closer, voice dropping just a notch. "So what's your big pitch this year? Quantum physics carnival games? Guess the half-life of the uranium isotope?"
"Still better than 'pin the tail on the teacher,'" she said flatly. "But I wouldn't expect you to appreciate substance."
That almost-smile again. Brief. Barely-there. But he saw it. He always did.
The second bell rang - sharp and impatient.
Students surged past, a river pulling them forward. Isabelle adjusted her bag and turned toward her homeroom.
"Just don't tank the fundraiser with your idea of 'fun,' Harding," she called over her shoulder. "Some of us are trying to raise actual money."
"And some of us are trying not to bore the entire school into a coma," he shot back.
She waved without looking, a half-dismissive, half-playful flick of her fingers.
He stood there a second longer, watching her disappear down the hallway. His heart beat just a bit faster. Not from nerves. Not from anger.
Something else. Something unnamed.
Noah turned and finally entered the common room. The air inside was heavy with the smell of old textbooks, bad coffee, and faded ambition. The vending machine hummed quietly in the corner. He dropped his bag onto the nearest armchair and pulled out his planner, flipping to today's schedule.
He tapped his pen against the page absently.
Fall Festival Committee Meeting – Friday, 3:30 PM.
Right after soccer practice. Right before debate prep. Right in between a whole mess of moments he'd be forced to spend… with her.
Noah leaned back, letting his head rest against the cushion.
Senior year had just begun, and the rivalry, it seemed, was already in full swing. He wondered, not for the first time, what new battleground this year would bring.
He had no idea it would involve a kitchen. Or his heart.