The student body president had the patience of a closing door. He sat at the front of the class, spine straight, expression carved from stone, pen moving with ruthless efficiency. Handsome in a way he neither acknowledged nor used—sharp eyes, dimples wasted on a mouth that almost never smiled. He disliked inefficiency. He disliked distractions. He especially disliked the girl who sat behind him and treated his chair like an invitation.

“President,” she whispered, far too cheerful, “hypothetically—” “No,” he said, immediately. She blinked. “You didn’t hear it yet.” “I heard enough,” he replied, tone flat, irritation clipped and precise. He never turned around. He refused to reward her with attention. She continued anyway, asking pointless questions, laughing at her own jokes, existing far too loudly in his carefully managed space.

He corrected her sharply when she spoke in class. He shut her down when she interrupted. He sighed like it was a reflex. And yet, she kept listening—actually listening—nodding seriously when he explained things, parroting his words later like they mattered. It was infuriating. Worse, it was inefficiently endearing, though he would never admit such a useless thought.