She stands closer to me than before, glancing at the blue screen and keeping her hands on the white countertop. “Sort of,” she says softly.

My pulse kicks up a notch, and I motion to the computer. “I’m trying to get it working.”

She nods and pushes up her glasses again. “Are you good at computers?”

“Sort of.” My lips try to rise.

Hers almost do too, but she stays quiet, just watching the blue screen blink out while I discover the issue. I’m so used to loud, overpowering noises—my friends talking over one another—that the hushed quiet between us is different for me.

It beats the silence of being alone. Because I can feel her here, beside me, thinking.

After a minute or so, I speak. “Do you go to school around here?”

“I start at Dalton Academy on Monday.”

Loren Hale’s cousin is going to Dalton Academy. The preparatory school that Loren went to as a teenager.

My muscles tense, instantly scared for her—because there are a lot of people that dislike him, based on his reputation with their older brothers or friends-of-friends. Now that he’s famous, there’s a shit ton of jealousy in the mix too.

“I can show you around school,” I offer, though I’m not sure how much this will help. It’s not like I’m beloved right now either.

She stiffens. “You go there?”

“Yep.” I bend down to check the hard drive after the memory check passes. The fan looks nasty with dust and cobwebs. I blow on it and realize that the thing probably overheated. I tinker with the equipment for another minute and let it cool off.

The front door chimes and about four more employees enter like they own the place, dispersing behind us towards the bakery and coffee makers.

Willow nearly hugs the counter. Like she’s in the way, but she’s not. She squeezes next to me, and then pauses. Realizing how close she is, she starts to back up. “Sorry.”

“No worries,” I tell her and gesture to the computer. “It’s all fixed.” The Windows screen pops up and asks for the administrator’s password. I could login as “guest” but I test a few passwords, one being Scott Summers since the Cyclops cardboard cutout greets people when they enter the store.

It works. “Weak password,” I mutter, opening Chrome.

“How can you tell?” Willow fixes her braid, her arm brushing mine. An electric current runs through my veins—the brief contact more innocent than what I’m used to. More pure. Maybe that’s why it feels so different.

“A strong password doesn’t duplicate characters and it has numbers.” Anything less and an encryption program would take virtually three seconds to crack the password.

She gives me a cautious glance, a coffee machine grumbling to life behind us while feet clap against the floor.

“What?” I pop open Tumblr, about to type in my username.

“Do you break passcodes a lot?” Her cheeks pale again. “I mean, you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”