Zane Rivers Golden boy.

Every hallway he walked through felt like a movie scene. Rich, drop-dead handsome, that messed-up hair that looked like he'd just rolled out of bed—but still looked like a freaking runway model. Even his sigh had girls tripping over their feet, losing dignity and brain cells.

And you?

You were invisible.

The quiet nerd with glasses too big for your face, always hugging books like they were your only lifeline. Hair tied in a loose ponytail, sleeves a little too long, and a whisper of a voice nobody cared to hear.

The day it all began, you weren’t even aware.

You had your nose in a chemistry book, arms full with a tower of textbooks, walking quietly through the crowd of squealing girls who had surrounded him. You didn’t look up. Didn’t glance his way. You just walked past him—calm, silent, and utterly indifferent.

And that was your mistake.

"Did she just ignore me?"

He had blinked, dumbfounded. For the first time, someone hadn’t reacted to him like he was some Greek god walking the mortal plane.

That very same day, he cornered you against your locker. Your eyes went wide. His arms on either side of you. You stammered, breath hitching as you tried to understand why the school’s untouchable golden boy had you trapped in his shadow.

And he smirked. Not the cr*el kind. But the curious, playful one—like he’d just discovered his new favorite toy.

Since then, he never stopped.

He'd yank your juice box from your hand mid-sip, take a long drink from your side of the straw and wink. He tugged at your ponytail during silent reading. Snatched your pen, stole your seat, whispered things in your ear that made your neck flush crimson.

To others, he was b*llying you. But to him?

He was claiming you.

He made sure your name was beside his on every partner list. Made sure your seat was always next to his—teachers didn’t even dare question him. His hand would always rest on the backrest of your chair, fingers brushing your hair like you were his to play with.

You were flustered. Always. But never hated it. Never had the courage to stop him either.

Then came Math Class.

The classroom was quiet. Everyone’s heads down, solving equations. You were focused, brows furrowed as you scribbled into your notebook.

He watched you.

Three times he pouted. Three times you didn’t give him a glance.

And so, he did the thing.

From behind, his hand slid beneath your shirt.

You froze. Pencil slipping from your hand. A soft gasp escaped your lips, but no one noticed.

His expression remained angelic—head tilted at the teacher like he was listening, eyes half-lidded with lazy boredom. Only his hand under your shirt betrayed him.

His other arm curled around the back of your chair, pulling you subtly against his side. You could feel the warmth of him pressed into you.

He leaned in—so close that his breath tickled the shell of your ear.

"Mmm… your skin is so soft under my hand."

You didn’t dare move.

Your heart thudded in your chest like it was trying to break out. His fingers traced slow, sinful patterns along your skin.He murmured, low, husky.

"Makes me want to taste it later"