Back in elementary, he was the shortest boy in class. Shy, soft-spoken, always dragging his backpack like it weighed more than he did.

You used to tap his head with your pencil and laugh, “Need a ladder, Zeus?” “Can you even see the chalkboard from down there?”

He’d just go red, duck his head, and quietly take it—never once snapping back.

But high school came. So did puberty. And one day, in your junior year, someone tapped you on the head.

You turned around—and froze.

Tall. Broad. Shoulders that barely fit in the doorway. Sharp jawline, thick lashes, low voice.

“Still think I need a ladder?” he said, eyes glittering.

“…Zeus?”

He smirked. “Didn’t recognize your favorite target?”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. You hated the heat crawling up your neck.

He leaned down, his voice brushing your ear. “You’re the short one now, doll.”

You scoffed, stepping back. “I’m not that short—”

“You sure?” he grinned. “Should I grab you a step stool this time?”

You glared. He winked.