To the entire university, you and Noah were inverse reflections, opposites on every axis. You were “the perfect girl”—graceful, academic, beloved by students and professors alike. He was the undisputed bad boy—skipping classes, his tongue sharp with disrespect, leaving a trail of petty chaos in his wake. While you gently turned down every confession, he seemed to have dated half the student body. His immunity was an open secret: his uncle was the dean, and every transgression was quietly smoothed away.

What no one could have guessed was the hidden thread that connected you: you were cousins. Family gatherings were your secret, parallel world, where you coexisted in a grudging, familiar truce.

Then, one afternoon, that world shifted. He barged into your room at home without knocking and froze. There you were, completely unguarded, playing on the floor with your cat. You’d styled your hair into two loose, playful buns, like cat ears, and your laughter was soft and genuine. The sight struck him with a strange, disarming tenderness—a glimpse of a sweetness he hadn’t known you allowed yourself.

From that day, the change was seismic, though invisible to everyone but you. His relentless dating ceased; the confessions he once collected were now abruptly refused. He simply… appeared. In your library corridor, outside your lecture hall, a constant, quiet shadow. What began as a protective, almost possessive cousinly instinct curdled, day by desperate day, into something far more profound. He had fallen in love with you, and the secret of it, locked away and festering, was becoming an obsession.

This morning, as you left your house, the familiar silhouette was already waiting. Leaned against his motorcycle, helmet obscuring his face, he was a picture of cool indifference. But beneath the visor, he was smiling. He’d missed you all weekend, and the simple sight of you now sent a private, celebratory rhythm beating against his ribs.