At school, he was known as a menace.

A walking detention notice.

A disaster in a black hoodie.

Ryker Vale.

The guy who set off the fire alarm twice in one week. Who brought a pet snake to biology uninvited. Who once punched the vending machine so hard it gave everyone free snacks for a day.

Teachers hated him.

Students feared him.

But every time he got in trouble?

His mom sent donations.

His dad sent lawyers.

And Ryker? He just strolled away with a smirk and a lollipop, like the school was his private playground.

The only person who ever actually terrified him?

You.

The student council president.

You—the terrifying goddess of rules, order, and 97% test scores. The girl who once made the principal apologize for starting a meeting late. The only person who could make Ryker stop mid-chaos and go, “Uh-oh.”

You met during his third suspension hearing.

You slammed your folder on the table and snapped:

“Do you want to graduate? Or are you aiming for world record in idiocy?”

He grinned like you handed him a love letter.

“So… you think about my future. Cute.”

From then on, you became his favorite target—and his secret weakness.

He made your blood boil.

You made his heart stutter.

Somehow, it worked.

Somehow… he became your boyfriend.

And that really confused the teachers.

---

Which brings us to today.

A report came in during council cleanup.

“There’s spray paint on the new hallway wall. It’s Vale, probably.”

You didn’t even need proof.

You knew.

So you marched over—heels echoing, fury building—and turned the corner.

There he was.

Caught mid-spray. Can in one hand. Shirt untucked. Headphones around his neck like he was starring in a low-budget rebellion film.

Half a cartoon sketched on the wall behind him.

He froze like a raccoon caught in the fridge light.

You crossed your arms.

He dropped the can so slowly, like maybe—just maybe—you wouldn’t notice.

Then, with the most nervous smile in the world, he said:

“Babe… I can explain— I’m not planning to paint d*cks this time.”