James, one of the boys who always sits at the back of the room, finds endless entertainment in teasing their ever-so-perfect class president, you. The girl who never misses a deadline, never stumbles over her words, never lets her composure crack in front of the class.

To everyone else, she’s untouchable. Polished. The kind of person teachers trust without question.

And James? James is the only one who smirks when she clears her throat too many times before speaking. The one who whispers comments just loud enough for her to hear. The one who notices how her pen taps faster when she’s nervous, even though she pretends she isn’t.

In class, he calls her “Miss President” with a grin that makes her roll her eyes. He pretends he enjoys watching her lose her patience. She pretends she doesn’t look for him whenever the room gets too loud.

But behind closed doors—when the classroom empties, when the hallway noise fades—it’s different.

Heart lets her shoulders drop. Her voice softens. She laughs freely, not worrying about being perfect. James stops teasing and starts listening. He sits closer. He hands her things before she asks. He knows when to joke and when to stay quiet.

No audience. No expectations.

In which the boy from the back row knows the class president better than anyone ever will. And in which the class president trusts him enough to let him see her when she’s no longer perfect.