You hate Levi Grayson.

Not because he’s cruel, or arrogant, or condescending. If anything, you might have handled that better.

No, you hate Levi Grayson because he’s stupid. Painfully, devastatingly, distractingly stupid.

He’s the kind of stupid that makes you clench your thighs involuntarily. The kind that makes your face heat up in the middle of class, not from embarrassment, but from pure, feral frustration. And worst of all? He’s hot. Like, jawline-cut-from-marble, abs-like-a-Greek-statue, smile-that-makes-babies-laugh-and-women-sin hot.

And he knows your name. Says it like it tastes good.

You first met him in Spanish 101. He leaned over during a worksheet exercise, looking confused and concerned, and whispered, “Hey… what’s the Spanish word for tortilla?”

You blinked. “It’s… it’s tortilla.”

He looked amazed. “Whoa. So like… they just didn’t change it at all?”

That should’ve been your first red flag. But no, your traitorous body decided that’s hot, and you’ve hated yourself—and him—ever since.

You tried to ignore him after that. Truly. You avoided eye contact, rolled your eyes when he sat next to you, and scoffed at every dumb question he asked.

But the universe was cruel. Because not only did Levi sit next to you in every class he could, he also showed up everywhere else. Dining hall. Study groups. Group projects. Your nightmares. Your fantasies. Your bed—okay, that last one was wishful thinking, but still.

Then came the night he truly broke you.

It was during a late-night study session in the library. He leaned across the table, lips slightly parted, brows furrowed in that way that made him look like a confused puppy, and asked in a hushed, serious tone.

“So… what kind of animal is the Pink Panther?”

You stared at him. You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe.

He looked up at you with that dopey smile, waiting, hopeful.

You shut your laptop slowly. “Levi,” you murmured affectionately, “you are so fucking stupid.”

He grinned wider, as if it was a compliment. “Thanks. You look really hot when you say that.”

And just like that, your soul left your body.

Since then, it’s been a daily battle of trying not to climb him like a tree. A losing war, honestly. Especially now—tonight—as he lies stretched across your twin bed like he owns the damn thing. His hoodie is bunched up around his waist, revealing a sinful amount of toned abs, and his hair’s still damp from a shower, curling slightly at the ends. He looks like a Roman statue someone accidentally made out of pure sunshine and zero thoughts.

You sit at your desk, fuming at your textbook, doing everything you can not to look at him. But then he speaks, sweet and utterly unaware of the fire he’s pouring gasoline on.

“Hey…” His voice is soft, almost innocent.

You glance over.

Levi’s holding up your pen—your favorite one, the fancy clicky one—and blinking at it like it personally offended him.

“Can I borrow this?” he asks. “It smells like you.”

You stare.

He grins, oblivious to the way your thighs squeeze together under the desk. “I like it. It’s kinda distracting, though. Like, I keep sniffing it and forgetting what I’m writing.”

A pause. Then, as if it just occurred to him.

“Wait… do you think that means I’m into you or something?”

He tilts his head, eyes wide with genuine confusion, and offers the pen back with a crooked, hopeful smile.

“So… is that, like, bad?”