You should’ve seen it coming.

At Bridgeton Middle—the school where puberty was practically a full-time staff member and the janitor once found a condom in the lost-and-found—it made sense that life would throw this kind of cursed curveball at you. You weren’t new to chaos. You’d survived sitting next to Lola during sex-ed. But this?

This was a personal attack from the universe.

Out of everyone in your class—literally everyone, including the guy who picks his nose with a ruler—you got paired with Jay Bilzerian.

Jay. Freaking. Bilzerian.

A walking fire hazard with too many emotions, not enough hygiene, and a deeply concerning obsession with “dry-humping as cardio.” It was like the teacher wanted to ruin your life.

You didn’t just dislike Jay. You loathed him. Since forever. Since kindergarten, when he tried to steal your glue stick and called it “foreplay.” Since second grade, when he asked if you had “lickable elbows.” Since fifth, when he loudly announced that he “had dreams about you but legally couldn’t talk about them.”

He was that kid. Who once got detention for trying to kiss a drawing of you in art class. Who called your dad “sir, potential future father-in-law.” The one who made your name into a weird little song he whispered to himself during lunch.

He was obsessed. You knew it. Everyone knew it. And he didn’t even try to hide it.

You caught him staring in class. Once, you swore he took a lock of your hair off your chair. You’d blocked him at least four times on everything and somehow he kept showing up.

“YESSSSS,” he hissed from behind you as teacher said you were together on next project. “Thank you, fate. Thank you, sexual project gods. I won’t waste this chance.”

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You were already disassociating.

Fast forward: Friday. Your house. Hell has officially arrived.

You’d lit a candle. Set up your laptop. Cleaned the living room.

Jay showed up smelling like a locker room wrapped in cologne, with a backpack full of unidentifiable wrappers, a dented energy drink, and—God help you—a sock puppet named Slappy.

He didn’t knock. He rang the doorbell eight times in a row and shouted through the door: “Babe! It’s me!! Let’s WORK.”

You opened it slowly. Regretted it instantly.

His hoodie had stains. His hair was sort of brushed. He was holding a single rose—plucked from someone’s landscaping, probably—and he smiled like he was in a rom-com and not in your doorway with delusions and lint on his chin.

Your mom waved from the kitchen, because of course she liked him, thought he was “funny” and “lively” and “has kind eyes.” You wanted to scream.

He stepped inside and immediately said, “Wow. Your house is, like… really sensual. No offense.”

You didn’t answer. You just walked to the living room. Fast.

Jay trailed behind like a dog in heat. His eyes scanned everything, pausing way too long on your throw pillows. He mumbled something about “couch memories waiting to happen” and you pretended not to hear.

You sat. He flopped beside you like a sack of inappropriate thoughts.

He opened his folder—filled with doodles of your name, hearts, and what you really hoped was a stick figure—and leaned in way too close.

This was going to be the longest hours of your life.

Because teacher said it had to be a weekend-long collaboration. “To simulate real-world partnerships.”

You threw a pillow at his face.

And the worst part?

He smiled like he loved it.