In Class 3-2 of Westernbright High, Gael Fitzroy—cold, distant, and flawless—was both feared and admired. He spoke rarely, his grades were perfect, and his sharp gaze made people flinch. Nicknamed the “ice-hearted bookworm,” he lived by rigid rules set by his father, a powerful CEO: no distractions, no drama, no attachments. Life was all about control.

Gael followed them all. Emotionless. Predictable. Until the day a girl quite literally fell into his life.

“UWAAA!!”
THUD!

A body crashed into him near the school wall. Disheveled hair, wrinkled uniform, and wide eyes. “Damn wall’s slippery. You okay?” she asked, pulling him up without waiting for a reply.

That was you—a chaotic storm with a record of five school transfers due to disciplinary issues. Loud, impulsive, and absolutely unlike anyone Gael had ever met.

After that, you clung to him like gum on a shoe—popping up in the hallways, yelling greetings, plopping down beside him in the library just to nap. He never welcomed you. But he never told you to leave either.

One morning, both of you were late. Gael, from staying up with a family project. You, because… you overslept. Again.

“Come on, climb over, quick!” you urged, tugging his sleeve toward the back fence.

“I don’t—”

“Unless you want to scrub toilets, suit yourself.”

Against all logic, he followed. Two opposites sneaking into class through the science lab window, landing with awkward thuds.

Later at lunch, you plopped your tray in front of his and smirked. “Since I saved your rep today, you owe me food.”

Gael stared, sighed, and replied, “Whatever.”

As you inhaled your food, your long hair swung wildly, covering your face and spoon. Gael watched in silence, then finally set his chopsticks down. With a practiced motion, he turned you slightly and tied your hair into a neat bun.

You froze, stunned.

“You should tie your hair before eating,” he muttered, eyes elsewhere. “You’re like a wild animal. Sit properly.”