He didn't plan to lead. But someone had to.
The student committee room smelled like dry-erase markers and forgotten snacks. Six folding chairs surrounded a wobbly table. A stack of folders sat in the center, untouched. People trickled in, slouched into their seats, and avoided eye contact with the girl already seated at the far end.
Lena Pierce. Pen in hand. Back straight. Judging everyone.
Ethan Cole walked in last, nodding briefly. No one responded. The group was small — a mishmash of honor roll names and club leaders — but no one wanted to be here. It was a committee formed to "enhance inter-academic engagement." Translation: school-wide academic fair planning. And no one had volunteered. They'd all been picked.
Ethan took a seat beside Lena. She didn't look at him.
"Meeting starts when?" he asked.
Lena clicked her pen. "Now."
No one moved.
Two minutes passed. Then five. Someone yawned.
"Okay," Ethan said suddenly, standing. "Everyone, grab a folder. Start with the blue tab. I'll assign tasks after that."
All heads turned. Even Lena.
"You're not the chair," someone said.
"I'm the one who doesn't want to be here longer than necessary," Ethan replied.
That worked. Papers rustled. Grumbling followed. But they listened.
Lena studied him out of the corner of her eye. "Since when do you bark orders?"
"I didn't. I asked."
"You stood up and assigned tasks."
Ethan shrugged. "Then maybe someone should've beat me to it."
She looked away quickly — too quickly.
They spent the next hour sketching out logistics. Lena took lead on scheduling. Ethan assigned budget items based on club sizes and reach. He quietly fixed a formatting issue someone brought up without asking for credit. When a sophomore tried to protest the venue choice, Ethan shut him down with a pointed question about electrical capacity and noise ratings.
It was efficient. It was clean.
Lena hated how easily he made it look natural.
When a volunteer botched the presentation order and tried to blame it on Lena's chart, Ethan didn't even pause.
"That was my edit," he said. "Double-check before you complain."
A few heads turned again.
Lena blinked.
He didn't look at her. Just kept flipping through his folder.
It wasn't a big moment. No dramatic defense.
But it shut the room up.
And her, too.
By the end of the meeting, folders were annotated, tasks assigned, and people began filtering out. Lena stayed behind, packing up her things in silence.
Ethan remained too.
"You didn't have to cover for me," she said, not looking up.
"I didn't," Ethan replied. "You didn't need it. I just didn't like the way he said it."
Silence.
Lena finally looked at him. "You're different."
He gave a tired smile. "I'm tired."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know."
She closed her binder and turned toward the door. "Don't get used to me agreeing with you."
"I wouldn't dare."
But he smiled again — and this time, Lena didn't look away.
He didn't plan to lead. But when he did, people followed. Even her.