Tom's POV
She flew through that routine like she was born for it — every move sharp, clean, effortless. My eyes kept trailing after her no matter how hard I tried to pretend I didn't give a damn. And then they shifted into their pyramid, hands steady, voices sharp with counts.
And she went up.
They tossed her into the air and for a second she looked weightless — like nothing touched her, like nothing ever hurt her. She landed perfectly in their arms, snapping upright with that blinding, practiced smile.
Then her gaze flicked up.
Straight at me.
Fuck.
My stomach dropped. The second our eyes met, I knew I needed to get the hell out of there before I ruined something for her. So I turned and walked out, forcing myself to keep moving, not look back, not think.
But footsteps echoed behind me.
Fast. Determined.
I froze for half a second before glancing over my shoulder — and there she was, jogging after me, ponytail bouncing, cheeks flushed from practice. She looked worried. Or desperate. Or… something.
And behind her?
I could hear them.
Her fucking cheerleader friends whispering behind their hands but loud enough to make sure it stabbed right through me.
"Why is she following that weirdo?"
A sharp laugh followed.
Another girl scoffed, "Seriously, it's gotta be some kind of a joke."
Their voices echoed through the hallway, every word hitting like a punch to the ribs.
Imogen heard it too — I saw the way her shoulders tensed mid-stride, the way her jaw clenched like she wanted to turn around… but she didn't.
She just kept coming.
Because apparently humiliating myself wasn't enough — now she had to chase me down too.
I swallowed hard, heartbeat spiking as I stopped walking. Her footsteps slowed behind me.
And for a split second, everything went painfully, breath-holding still.
"Tom, wait," she said again, and her fingers tightened just enough around my wrist to stop me without forcing me. I didn't turn, didn't meet her eyes—because I already knew the second I did, all that irritation would crumble.
"What?" I muttered, not bothering to soften it.
"Can we talk? Please?" Her voice wasn't angry, just quietly desperate, and it scraped at me in a way I didn't want to deal with. I could've pulled away—should've, probably—but Luke's words slammed back into my head like some annoying echo.
Talk to her instead of avoiding her like an idiot.
"Fine," I mumbled. "What is it?"
"Hey, Imogen, we're waiting!" one of the cheerleaders yelled from behind us—loud, mocking, like they owned the hallway.
"Coming!" She shouted back, then immediately tugged me down a side hallway, away from their eyes and bullshit.
The second the echo of their steps faded, she let go of my wrist like it burned her.
"Why have you been avoiding me?" she asked, voice cracking a little, even though she tried to keep it steady. "Did I do something? Say something? Because you won't even look at me anymore and I don't—"
"Imogen," I cut in, rubbing a hand down my face, "you know exactly why."
She blinked at me, confused, like she had no idea what Tyler told me.
"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "I swear I don't. You just stopped talking to me. You wouldn't sit with me. You pretended not to hear me when I called you in the hallway—Tom, what did I do?"
I felt my jaw clench.
"What's your deal with Tyler?" I asked, because I was done dancing around it. "You two dating? Hooking up? Whatever?"
She froze.
Actually froze.
Her eyes darted away—not guilty exactly, but guarded, like I asked a question she didn't know how to answer without detonating something.
"He's just… someone I know," she finally said, voice too vague, too careful. "We've known each other for a while. That's it."
"You expect me to believe that?"
Her throat bobbed.
"I don't expect anything," she whispered back. "I just—can you please stop shutting me out? I don't know what he told you or what you think happened, but I don't want you to disappear. You're… You're the first friend I've had who actually sees me and doesn't want something from me."