Thunderstruck Secrets

**Opening Section**

The first time I saw Weria, she was sitting alone at lunch, picking at her food like it had personally offended her. I remember thinking, *Easy prey.*

“New girl’s got a death wish,” Mike muttered around a mouthful of overpriced sushi. He flicked a grain of rice off his designer sweater, eyes gleaming with the kind of boredom only wealth could cultivate.

Jill snorted, tossing her hair over one shoulder. “Bet she doesn’t even know who you are, Jazz.”

I smirked. That was the fun part—teaching her.

By second period, Weria’s backpack was dangling from the flagpole, her gym clothes dyed neon pink in the wash. By the end of the week, she’d been slimed, locked in a closet, and prank-called three times from Zan’s burner phone. Most kids cracked by then—either cried, begged, or transferred out.

Weria? She set my desk on fire.

Not metaphorically. Actual flames.

I should’ve been pissed. Instead, I couldn’t stop laughing as the extinguisher foam rained down over us. That’s when I knew: this wasn’t just another victim.

This was war.

---

Detention was our battleground.

Every afternoon, the principal’s office handed me the same slap on the wrist—*Jazz, behave*—as if they weren’t the ones who taught me rules didn’t apply to people like us. Dad’s signature was already pre-signed on detention slips. Efficiency over shame.

Weria was already there when I strolled in, slouched in her chair like a storm waiting to break. She didn’t flinch when I dropped into the seat beside her, just flicked her pencil between her fingers like a knife.

“Miss me?” I grinned.

She didn’t look at me. “Like a toothache.”

I stole her eraser. She stole my pen. I doodled a dick on her notebook. She snapped my ruler in half.

The teacher sighed. “For God’s sake, you two.”

I leaned over, whispering loud enough for her to hear. “You know you love me.”

Her foot slammed into my shin. Hard.

I bit back a hiss, grinning wider.

*This* was fun.

---

Then came the school trip.

The lodge was shit—peeling wallpaper, suspicious stains, the kind of place that reeked of mildew and bad decisions. Our class shuffled in, groaning about the lack of Wi-Fi, while the chaperones doled out keys.

Jill elbowed me. “Dibs not rooming with Mike. His socks smell like death.”

“Hey—” Mike protested.

I wasn’t listening. Because right then, the teacher squinted at her clipboard and announced, “Jazz and Weria, you’re in Room 7.”

Silence.

Then chaos.

“*What?*” we snarled in unison.

The teacher blinked. “It’s just for sleeping. Don’t make it weird.”

Weria looked like she wanted to commit murder. I wasn’t far behind.

But rules were rules, and Dad’s name only got me so much leeway. So we stomped upstairs, duffel bags knocking against each other like we were already brawling.

The room had one bed.

*One.*

Weria froze. “You’re sleeping on the floor.”

I scoffed. “Like hell.”

“I’ll push you off in the middle of the night.”

“Try it.”

We glared. The bed glared back.

Somehow, we both ended up on it—edges gripped tight, backs turned, a canyon of spite between us. The lights clicked off. Outside, rain started to patter.

Then the thunder came.

I hated thunder. Always had. It wasn’t fear—just… something deeper, something that made my ribs tighten like a fist was squeezing them.

Another crack. Closer.

I flinched.

Weria shifted. “You good?”

“Shut up.”

A beat. Then, softer: “You scared?”

“*No.*”

Lightning flashed. The room lit up just long enough for me to see her raised eyebrow.

Then—

*Boom.*

I didn’t mean to move. But suddenly, I was against her, arms locked around her waist, face buried in her neck like a kid hiding from the dark.

Her breath hitched. “Jazz—”

“Shut up,” I mumbled against her skin. “Just… shut up.”

Another rumble. I tensed—

And then her fingers slid into my hair.

Gentle. Steady.

I went still.

She smelled like cheap shampoo and the faint sting of the cigarette she’d snuck earlier. Her pulse jumped under my lips.

I should’ve let go.

I didn’t.

Somewhere between the next roll of thunder and her quiet *“Breathe, idiot,”* something shifted. Her hand curled tighter in my hair. My grip on her waist tightened.

Then—

She kissed me.

Not sweet. Not soft. A sharp, impatient press of her mouth to mine, like she was punishing me for something.

I kissed back harder.

The storm didn’t matter anymore.

---

Morning came with sunlight spearing through the curtains and the slow, horrified realization that we’d made a *very* bad decision.

Clothes everywhere. Sheets tangled. My hand was on her ass.

*What the hell happened last night?*

Weria stirred. Blinked up at me.

Silence.

Then—

“*Never* tell anyone.”

I swallowed. “Okay.”

She sat up. The hickeys stood out stark against her skin. So did the bite mark on my shoulder.

We dressed in silence, avoiding each other’s eyes.

Then, as she reached for the door—

I grabbed her wrist.

She turned.

I kissed her again.

And just like that, we were right back where we started—except now, the rules were even more broken than before.

The real question wasn’t *what happened.*

It was *what now?*