"You loser. Don't tell me you've never had a girl make you a meal before?"
Before morning assembly even started, Kiera stormed into our classroom like she owned the place—because of course she did—and dropped something onto my desk with a loud thunk.
It was a lunchbox.
She stood there with her arms crossed, looking smug, like she'd just handed me a grenade and was waiting for me to pull the pin.
I stared at it, a little suspicious.
Unless Kiera had suddenly developed a grudge and decided to assassinate me via lunchbox bomb, I had to assume this was food. Homemade food.
I glanced down. The corners of the box were neatly taped shut, probably to keep it from spilling. There were a few awkward smudges near the lid, like she'd wiped something off in a hurry. And her right hand—covered in two fresh band-aids.
It wasn't much, but it told me enough.
She'd put in effort.
That part… I didn't expect.
