June POV:
I turned slowly, spine straightening like an antenna picking up a signal I did not want.
There he was.
Justin.
Sitting on the floor, back against the wall, knees pulled up like some tragic Greek statue that also happened to be hot. Head down, shoulders tense. Like he'd just had a panic attack. Or fought a demon. Or both.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, because it was better than saying, Oh God, why are you in this broom closet like a sad model from a mental breakdown calendar?
He chuckled without humor. The sound scraped low in his throat like gravel. Then he lifted his head and gave me that smirk—the one that earned him a reputation, the one half the campus swooned over and the other half wisely avoided.
And there it was.
The smirk.
That signature bad-boy-who-probably-doesn't-pay-his-taxes smirk that got half the campus pregnant with just a glance. Sharp jaw, stormy eyes, cocky tilt of the lips—God help us all.
