Chapter 1: The Thermos Mystery and the Bad Boy’s Secret

When I ran into Mason Yu at the stairwell, there was really nowhere for me to hide. Of course there wasn't—story of my life, right? Jake Johnson swaggered in, right in the center of a pack of guys, hands shoved deep into his pockets, like he owned the place.

The fluorescent lights overhead flickered, casting a chilly glow over the concrete steps. I pressed myself against the wall, trying to look invisible, but seriously—no chance. Jake and his crew practically blocked the whole stairwell, their laughter bouncing off the cinderblocks, making the space feel even smaller.

Someone in his group nudged him and asked, "Jake, you don't actually like her, do you?"

Jake just shrugged, voice all casual, like he didn't care if the whole world heard: "Can't help it. First time I saw her, I'd already picked out our matching Instagram icons—as if we were already a couple."

His voice was so chill, like he was just talking about the weather, but his eyes lingered on me a second too long. The other guys elbowed each other, snickering, but Jake kept that whatever attitude, like none of it mattered. My cheeks burned under his gaze. I pretended to check my phone, my heart thumping so loud I was sure everyone could hear it.

I knew him. He was the most intimidating guy at Maple Heights High, but for a month now, he'd been secretly filling my thermos with hot coffee.

Honestly, it was weird. Jake was the guy everyone whispered about—bad news, king of detentions, the type teachers warned you to avoid. But every morning, my coffee was steaming, the lid screwed on just right. I never caught him in the act, but somehow, I just knew.

Every winter, PE made us do a long, freezing run—everyone hated it. The wind stung your face the worst then. Afterward, most of us collapsed onto our desks, gasping for breath. But after sucking in all that cold air, nothing felt better than something hot to drink. So a lot of girls still lined up at the end of the hall for hot water.

The gym doors would bang open, and the halls would fill with shuffling sneakers and chattering teeth. I always hurried, clutching my thermos, hoping to beat the crowd. There was something about that ritual—the way everyone jostled in line, shivering, trading gossip while waiting for the water to heat up.

But there was only one hot-water dispenser per floor, and sometimes, if you were unlucky, you'd still be waiting when class started. Lately, something strange had been happening to me.

I’d rush back to class, expecting to wait my turn, but somehow my thermos was always full. It made no sense. I started to wonder if I was losing my mind, or if someone was playing a prank.

Frowning, I lifted my thermos from under the desk—it was full again. My insulated cup on the desk was also full, at just the right temperature.

I pressed my hand to the side. Still warm. Whoever was doing this knew exactly how I liked it—not too hot, not lukewarm. It was almost unsettling how perfect it was, every single time.

Who kept filling my thermos?

It had been a month. Who could it be? Who in class would do this for me? I couldn't figure it out.

I even started keeping a mental list, crossing off names. But none of my classmates seemed like the type. It was like a tiny mystery tucked into the middle of my ordinary school days.

As class president, I was always the one looking after others... Why did I bother? Habit, I guess. Everyone said I was easygoing and soft-hearted, the nicest person in class. But honestly? I was stubborn to the core.

People assumed I was just a people-pleaser, always volunteering, always smiling. But deep down, I had my own set of rules—lines I wouldn't let anyone cross. I guess I just hid my stubbornness better than most.

I didn't make friends easily—my energy was reserved for more important things. I was used to being on my own. My kindness was just the side I let people see; it wasn't the whole story.

There was comfort in keeping people at arm’s length. If you never let anyone close, they couldn’t let you down. I wore my friendliness like a mask, and nobody ever questioned it.

A month of mysterious hot water had been bugging me for ages. I was really curious about who was doing it.

Every time I unscrewed my thermos, I’d catch myself glancing around, half-expecting someone to pop out and confess. But no one ever did. It was driving me a little crazy.

So for the first time, I left the run early.

My heart hammered as I snuck off the track, the cold air burning my lungs. I told myself it was just curiosity, but really, I just needed to know. One lap to go, I ducked out and hurried down the hall, my sneakers squeaking on the tile.

Their voices bounced off the lockers, low and conspiratorial. I pressed myself against the wall, listening. It was rare to see this many guys from Class B hanging around our side of the building.

Hands jammed in their pockets, they leaned against the door, craning their necks to peek inside: "Seriously, why does Jake come fill her thermos every day? And why do we have to keep lookout like we're doing something shady?"

They shifted from foot to foot, glancing nervously down the hall. One guy kept checking his phone, like he was just waiting for a teacher to bust them.

"Yeah, usually we'd be off grabbing breakfast by now, but here we are, guarding the door every day. Ugh. If you ask me, Jake doesn't even need us. This class is all good kids—they care more about GPA than their lives. No way any of them would skip out on the run."

I couldn't help smirking a little. If only they knew I was right behind them, breaking the rules for the first time in ages.

They were so wrapped up in their conversation, they didn't even notice me walk up behind them.

I could hear the irritation in their voices, but also this weird loyalty—like they'd do anything for Jake, even if it meant freezing in the hallway instead of scarfing down breakfast sandwiches.

One of the guys let out a big sigh, watching inside: "Look at Jake, so careful just filling her thermos. I saw him wipe that cup three times. Who'd believe it? This is the same Jake who doesn't even blink in a fight!"

He sounded half-awed, half-exasperated. It was weird, hearing the school's so-called bad boy described like a doting dad. I couldn't help picturing Jake, big and intimidating, fussing over a tiny cup.

He got more animated as he spoke, blocking my way in. After a moment's hesitation, I squeezed through, muttering an awkward "Excuse me."

One guy stepped back, nearly tripping over his own feet. Another just stared, mouth open. I ducked my head, trying not to make eye contact, but the whole group seemed to freeze.

They craned their necks, yelling into the classroom, "Jake! Hurry up! Are you done yet?"

Their voices echoed, a little too loud. I could see Jake's silhouette inside, hunched over a desk, completely focused on the task at hand.

Inside, a tall guy stood with his back to me, slightly hunched. His buzz cut made him look tough and a bit roguish. Right now, he was carefully wiping a pale yellow cup.

His shoulders were broad, and his hands looked almost comically large against the delicate cup. He moved with surprising gentleness, as if he was afraid of scratching it. I watched, transfixed, as he polished the rim for the third time.

His hands were big, with knobby knuckles. The cup, which fit perfectly in my hand, looked almost tiny in his. Kind of cute, actually. Yet his movements were so gentle, the corners of his mouth seemed to curl up just a little.

For a moment, he didn’t look like the school’s most feared troublemaker—he just looked like a boy with a crush, trying to get everything just right.

Finally, he finished wiping. When he heard the guys outside urging him, he turned with my cup in hand, sounding annoyed: "Quit rush—"

He spun around, ready to snap at his friends, but the words caught in his throat when he saw me standing there. His eyes widened, and for a split second, he looked almost scared.

His voice caught the second he met my eyes. He froze, staring at me. "Crap..."

The word slipped out, low and rough, and the room went dead silent. Even the hallway noise seemed to fade away.

The room went silent. None of the guys dared say a word.

It was like someone had hit pause on the whole scene. Jake just stood there, cup in hand, looking more vulnerable than I’d ever seen him.

I pointed at the cup in his hand and spoke softly, "That's my cup."

My voice was barely above a whisper, but it seemed to echo. Jake’s face went a little pale, and he glanced at the cup, then at me, as if weighing his next move.

His nose was straight, and the buzz cut made him look especially fierce. But right then, a flicker of regret crossed his eyes. He gently set my cup on my desk, straightened his rumpled hoodie, and tried to compose himself under my steady gaze. Maybe I was staring too directly—he looked more and more uncomfortable, his hands awkwardly revealing his nerves.

He fussed with his sleeves, tugging them down over his wrists, then shoved his hands deep into his pockets. He wouldn’t meet my eyes, and the tips of his ears were turning bright red.

Finally, he coughed and tried to avoid my eyes, hands stuffed in his pockets as he strode past me, trying to play it cool.

He moved fast, almost bumping into his friends on the way out. The whole tough-guy act was slipping, and it was weirdly endearing.

At the door, I heard him mutter through gritted teeth, "Great lookout, guys. Move it. What if you scare her?"

His voice was sharp, but there was a nervous edge to it. The guys shuffled out behind him, shooting me sheepish glances. I watched them go, and for the first time, Jake looked less like a legend and more like a real person.

He left with his crew, but I could see from his retreating back that he was practically fleeing—the tips of his ears were bright red.

He kept his head down, hands still jammed in his pockets, but I caught him glancing back just once before disappearing around the corner. The other guys trailed after him, quieter than usual.

I recognized him: Jake Johnson from Junior Year, Class B, the most notorious figure at Maple Heights High.

His name was always the first to come up in any story about fights or drama. Even the teachers seemed wary of him. But seeing him like this—awkward, flustered, caught red-handed—made him seem almost... normal.

Rumor had it he had a temper, but he was loyal, so he had a whole crowd of followers. Plus, he was ridiculously good-looking, making him famous around school.

Girls whispered about him in the hallways, and guys either wanted to be him or stay out of his way. But no one ever talked about him being gentle. That part, I’d just seen for myself.

But why would someone like him spend a month filling my thermos?

I stared at the cup on my desk, trying to piece it all together. Jake Johnson, the school’s bad boy, going out of his way for me? The thought made my heart do a weird little flip.

Jake wiped my cup with such care, like it was something really important. If my guess was right, I definitely needed to steer clear of him.

I told myself to stay away, to keep things simple. But I couldn’t help sneaking glances at him in the hallway, wondering if he’d look back.

But the more you want to avoid someone, the more fate throws you together. Stairwells, the cafeteria, the school store—even on the way to the bathroom, I kept running into Jake. Someone I used to never even see was now popping up everywhere.

It was like the universe was playing a prank on me. Every time I turned a corner, there he was—leaning against a locker, chatting with his friends, or just passing by. I started to wonder if he was doing it on purpose.

But the Jake I saw outside the classroom was different from the flustered one inside. When he wasn't smiling, he looked truly intimidating. One hand in his pocket, leading the way, his dark eyes revealed nothing, his posture slouchy yet radiating a clear "keep away" vibe.

He could make a whole crowd part just by walking down the hall. His reputation preceded him, and most people gave him a wide berth. But every now and then, I’d catch him glancing my way, just for a second.

The other students all seemed to fear him. Was this the real Jake—the one from all the rumors?

I watched from a distance, trying to reconcile the gentle boy who filled my thermos with the tough guy everyone else saw. It was confusing, and a little bit thrilling.