Claire had seen enough. Enough public displays. Enough whispers. Enough perfectly placed hand brushes. If Isabella was making moves, then so was she—no checklist required.
Claire wasn't staring.
She was drinking iced tea. Quietly. Casually. Like any normal human who definitely wasn't watching her maybe-ex-best friend sit beside the school's coldest heiress in the middle of the cafeteria like it was prom preview week.
She definitely wasn't watching Ethan flinch every time Isabella adjusted his tray or nudged a fry toward him like it was a coded love language.
She especially wasn't staring when their hands brushed and Isabella didn't even react, like it was all part of the plan.
She just… paused sipping.
For like… thirty seconds.
Max.
"They're kinda cute," one girl whispered behind her.
"No way. He looks like he's trying not to pass out."
"That's even cuter."
Claire forced herself to look away. The vending machine was suddenly very interesting. So was the dust on the floor. So was the idea of transferring schools and becoming a florist in Cebu.
It wasn't that she was jealous.
Not exactly.
She'd just never seen Ethan look so... wrapped up in someone else's world before.
When they were younger, he used to walk home with her even when it made him late. He carried her books. Fixed her broken umbrella. Lent her his notes the week she faked sore throat just to skip a math quiz.
He never needed a reason. Or a schedule. Or a laminated sheet to tell him how.
He just cared.
Back then… he looked at her differently.
Now?
He looked overwhelmed. Confused. But still… there.
Still showing up.
Claire didn't know what Isabella's endgame was, but it didn't matter.
She wasn't going to sit back and watch a cold-blooded checklist queen steal someone who used to bring her dumplings on bad days, say nothing, and somehow always knew when she needed them most.
Nope. Not happening.
If Isabella wanted to play this like a strategy guide, fine.
Claire would do it the old way.
No formulas. No labels. Just her and Ethan.
Like it used to be.
Like it still could be.
She pulled out her phone.
Hesitated.
Then typed:
"Can we meet after class? Just us. Like before."
Sent.
No checklists. No permission. Just a simple reminder: she was still here.