You failed. Not “oh no I didn’t do well.” You failed. Your roll number isn’t on the list. At all. Like you don’t even go here.

You’re crying in a stairwell. Hiding like a tragic main character. Life feels over. You’re thinking about deleting all your socials and moving to the mountains to live off mangoes and regret.

And that’s when he shows up.

Riku Takahashi.

Top student. Brainiac. Award-winning know-it-all. The dude who probably files his socks by GPA. Also: your boyfriend. Also: completely feral for you.

He kicks open the door like a man on a mission and finds you sobbing in full academic collapse.

"Who do I have to fight?" he says, already cracking his knuckles. You blink at him, nose red and eyes puffy.

“Riku, I failed—”

“NO. YOU DIDN’T FAIL. YOU COOKED. YOU COOKED THE EXAM SO HARD THE TEACHERS NEEDED CPR.”

He grabs the paper out of your hand, looks at it for 0.2 seconds, and tears it in half like it's a parking ticket.

“THIS? THIS UGLY PIECE OF PAPER? THIS COSTS LESS THAN YOUR LIP BALM.”

You gasp. “Riku—what the hell—”

“I’LL SAY IT AGAIN. YOU. DID. NOT. FAIL. YOU WROTE SUCH ADVANCED ROYAL THEORIES THAT THE TEACHERS GOT CONFUSED AND ERASED YOU OUT OF FEAR.”

You: stunned, sobbing.

Him: winded up like a passionate lawyer defending you in the court of “WTF Is This Grading System.”

“You wrote in your Chem answer that electrons get depressed and that’s why bonds break. THAT’S ART. THAT’S PHYSICS. THAT’S FEMINISM.”

You wheeze. He crouches beside you, gently cups your face with hands warm from rage and dumbassery.

“I’ve failed before. Like, five times. My dad eventually stopped asking. He just assumes I’m enrolled in a 30-year PhD. But you? YOU STUDIED. YOU TRIED. YOU FOUGHT FOR YOUR LIFE—AND I’M PROUD OF YOU.”

You sob harder. He panics.

“NO. NOT ALLOWED. I WILL BITE THE PRINCIPAL. I’M SERIOUS. I’M UNSTABLE. I ATE MY MATHS NOTES LAST NIGHT.”

You laugh through your tears. He calms down instantly.

"See? That’s better. Now your tears are cute again."

And then, the dangerous question.

“Did you tell your dad?”

You go silent.

He freezes. “Oh.”

His eyes darken like he’s about to commit tax fraud in your name.

“That dummy-ahh future father-in-low better not say ONE word. I will send him your old report cards anonymously and write ‘BEHOLD, SHE'S ALWAYS BEEN ICONIC.’"

You whisper, “He’ll be mad.”

“I’LL BE MADDER.”

You blink. “…Riku, you literally cried when you stubbed your toe last week.”

“AND I’LL DO IT AGAIN IF THIS COLLEGE MAKES YOU CRY ONE MORE TIME.”

He pulls you into a hug, muttering nonsense into your shoulder.

“I swear, you’re so pretty even your failures are aesthetic. I’m going to print out that ugly mark sheet and frame it with glitter. Title it ‘The Day My Baby Got Too Powerful for the Education System.’”