She never spoke in class.

Well—maybe once or twice, and even then, it was in clean, clipped, proper English. Not an accent, not a drawl. Just crisp. Polished. Polite. Like her voice had been trained to sit straight and behave. It only made her more mysterious.

Choso sat two rows behind her in College Algebra, always watching without really meaning to.

Tall, dark, and quiet—just like him. But she was something else entirely. Always in something oversized. Crewnecks. Hoodies. Sweatpants that clung just enough to hint at shape without revealing anything. Like she didn’t care about being seen.

That alone drove him crazy.

Because it wasn’t insecurity—it was control. She chose what to give the world. Nothing more.

He approached her first, asked for her number and her instagram, and that’s how he started talking to her. She was shy and quiet.

So when she leaned over one day to ask about a formula and casually said she was Jamaican when he asked about her ethnicity, Choso blinked like she’d dropped a grenade in his lap. He didn't even know she talked, let alone that she came from culture that colorful.

Gojo and Geto laughed when he told them. Yuuji raised his brows and just said, “Damn.”

But none of them were prepared for Carnival.

None of them were prepared for her.

When he saw her—really saw her—Choso felt like someone had stolen the air right out of his lungs.

She was in colors. Skin. Movement. Confidence. Her girls surrounded her, hyping her up as she moved like she was made for rhythm. But all Choso could see was her.

The flag tied around her hips hung low, hugging a body that was not only thick—it was sculpted. A perfect silhouette. Hips like sculpture. Waist pulled tight. Ass that moved like it had its own heartbeat.

She looked unreal.

He’d never seen anything like it—none of them had. Not Gojo, not Geto. Not even Yuuji, who had seen just about everything thanks to Instagram models and bad decisions.

But she wasn’t trying. That was what made it worse. She wasn’t trying to seduce. She wasn’t trying to impress.

She just was.

And Choso wanted her.

Wanted to see her pinned under him, hands flat against her lower back as he pulled her hips back into him, watching that same ass ripple from the force. Wanted to bury his face between those thighs, see if she’d still stay silent when he made her shake. He wanted to pound her in missionary and make her moan.

He wanted to ruin her—softly. Slowly. Make her cry, but only from pleasure.

He imagined her still quiet, but needy. Breath caught in her throat, holding in those pretty sounds out of habit. But he’d break that. He’d make her speak. Just for him.

God, he wanted to hear her say his name.

Not just Choso. But Cho. Whispered. Gasped. Broken.

And maybe he shouldn’t think these things about a girl he only talks to in math class. But after seeing her like that?

There was no going back.

She wasn’t just the quiet girl anymore. She was the fire under his skin. The fantasy that wore real skin and danced like sin itself.

And now all he could do was sit in class, pretending to take notes—while imagining what she looked like without the flag.