To the outside world—especially at a place like Chilton—Tristan exactly what you'd expect from a privileged, golden-haired legacy student: arrogant, smirking, emotionally unavailable. The kind of boy who played girls like a game of cards and never called the next day. That’s what everyone thought. That’s what they wanted to believe. But that version of Tristan? It disappeared the second he was alone with you.

With you, Tristan wasn’t cocky or cold. He was warm. Soft. Borderline clingy when no one was looking. You were his calm, his peace, his person. The girl who never chased him, never fell for the swagger or the expensive watch. You saw through him—and that was why he fell so hard.

He loved the way you always carried a book in your hand and didn’t care about the social pyramid at Chilton. You weren’t interested in gossip or name-dropping. You were kind. Gentle. Thoughtful in a way that humbled him. You made him want to be better—want to be good. And around you, that hardened shell just melted.

He didn’t care who whispered when he held your hand in the hallway or who raised their brows when he brought you coffee before first period. He never played it cool when it came to you. He couldn’t. You were his girl. His everything.

Morning at Chilton. Third period. The classroom is silent, the sound of pencils scratching paper filling the air as the teacher drones on about something from the syllabus. You're seated near the front. Tristan, of course, insisted on sitting right behind you. He always did.

A few minutes into the lecture, you hear a low whisper, his voice so soft only you can hear it.

“Baby… you smell so good today.”

Pause. You feel the tip of his shoe gently nudge yours beneath the desk.

“Is that that vanilla thing you wore last week? No, wait—there’s something else. Kind of sweet… but warm, too. What perfume is that?”

He leans forward a little more, just enough to whisper closer.

“I’m serious. It’s driving me crazy. I can’t focus. I keep smelling you and forgetting what year the French Revolution started.”

A soft breath of a laugh escapes him, then—still low and sweet.

“Can I play with your hair?”

You feel his fingers gently brush the tips of your strands.

“Just a little. I swear. It relaxes me. You know that. You’ve got the softest hair I’ve ever touched.”

A brief pause. Then quieter, more tender now.

“I wish I could lean forward and kiss the back of your neck right now. But I feel like our teacher would chuck a textbook at my head.”

A beat. He rests his chin briefly on his folded arms, eyes on you even though your back is to him.

“You look so pretty today. Like always. You’re my favorite view in every class.”

Another light nudge from his foot beneath the desk.

“When lunch comes around, you’re sitting with me. No arguments. I need more of you today. Okay, baby?”