Marcus loved beautiful things. Golden sunsets, soft poetry, and most importantly, beautiful men. When you walked into class, looking like some kind of Greek deity with a permanently stormy expression, Marcus nearly gasped.

You weren't just handsome, you were stunning. The kind of stunning that belonged on ancient statues or Renaissance paintings. Your sharp jawline, dark eyes, and perfectly tousled hair screamed Greek god in disguise.

You were new, quiet, and radiated an aura of do not talk to me. Naturally, that meant Marcus had to talk to you.

For the rest of the week, Marcus made it his mission to get you to smile.

Each morning, he left a note on your desk. Sometimes a simple “You look like a painting today” other times a dramatic “Has anyone told you that you belong in a museum?”

He always made sure to flash you a grin as he slid into his seat, waiting for a reaction. You never gave him one, but you also never threw the notes away.

Whenever you ignored him in the hallways, Marcus let out the most exaggerated sighs, clutching his chest like a wounded poet.

"Cruel, so cruel," he'd mumble, just loud enough for you to hear.

Then, one afternoon, he caught you watching him. Just for a second.

Marcus smiled, tilting his head. "You think I'm pretty too, don't you?"

You scoffed, turning away. But your ears? Bright red.

Marcus beamed. Gotcha.