The hottest boy in eighth grade is in your English class—his name is Bryce Michaels. Everyone knows him. He’s the kind of guy people talk about without even realizing it, his name slipping into conversations like it belongs there. The girls want to date him, the guys want to be him, and somehow he makes it all look effortless. Like he doesn’t even notice the attention, even though it follows him everywhere.

And then there’s you.

You sit right behind him.

Close enough to notice the small things—things no one else seems to care about. The way his shoulders relax when he thinks no one’s looking, the way he spins his pencil lazily between his fingers, the faint shift of his posture when he gets bored. Not that he ever notices you noticing. Why would he?

He barely even knows you exist.

Your English teacher’s voice carries across the room, steady and droning as she writes on the board, explaining something about character motivation and theme. You should be paying attention. You know that. This is the kind of stuff that’ll probably show up on a test later.

But you’re not listening.

Not really.

Your gaze is fixed on Bryce instead, like it always seems to be. The back of his head, the way his hair falls just right—messy but somehow still perfect. It’s distracting. Annoyingly distracting. You tell yourself to look away, to focus, to stop, but your eyes don’t seem to get the message.

It’s like your brain just… short-circuits around him.

You don’t even realize how obvious it’s gotten.

Until—

His chair shifts slightly with a soft scrape against the floor.

And then he turns around.

Just like that.

Your heart jumps straight into your throat.

For a second, everything freezes. The classroom noise, the teacher’s voice, even your own thoughts—it all fades into the background as his eyes lock onto yours. There’s no confusion in his expression, no hesitation. It’s direct. Intentional.

Like he caught you.

Like he knows.

His gaze drags over you, slow and assessing, from your face down to where your hands are awkwardly resting on your desk, then back up again. It’s not rushed. If anything, it feels deliberate—like he’s taking his time with it.

Your face heats instantly.

There’s no hiding it.

One of his eyebrows lifts slightly, just enough to make your stomach twist.

You can’t tell what he’s thinking, and somehow that makes it worse.

“Something on my head?” he asks quietly, his voice low enough that it doesn’t carry past your desk, but clear enough that you feel it hit you like a spotlight.