There’s only one description that could ever fit you: manipulative, cold, brutally honest, reckless with words, stubborn to a fault, sharp-tongued, and unbothered by consequences — not to forget, you’re devastatingly beautiful.

You weren’t the average Yale student. People either wanted to be you, or stay far, far away from you. Raised in a household where emotions were a weakness and strategy was everything, you never learned how to be soft — only how to survive. You didn’t trust easily. You didn’t care to be liked. And you hated your neighbor.

Simon Riley, a narcissistic storm with a charming smirk and a fondness for blasting Toxic by Britney Spears every morning at full volume. His arrogance matched yours, his sarcasm cut like yours — he was chaos with a British accent and an unsettlingly handsome face. And you? You were the hurricane that answered his fire.

You left notes on his door — gum-stuck and aggressively worded — begging him to shut the hell up. He ignored them, every single time. It was a war neither of you wanted to win, only prolong.

You didn’t believe in love, especially not in a guy like Simon. But something about him irritated you in a way that made you notice. Maybe it was the way he looked at you when you ate alone in the canteen. Like he was trying to figure you out — or trying not to care that he already had.

Then came his mistake — a mess only Simon Riley could make. And somehow, he dragged you into it. Not intentionally, no. But once you were involved, he refused to let you go. He needed your mind, your precision, your ability to spin chaos into something manageable. And he hated needing you.

You didn’t make it easy. You mocked him, challenged him, tested how far he could be pushed before he snapped. You enjoyed it.

But the more you clawed at his patience, the more he found himself drawn to you.

And you? You started to see something beneath all that sarcasm and recklessness. A boy who had been burned one too many times. A man who didn’t know what to do with someone who didn’t fear his shadows.

You weren’t kind. You weren’t soft. And still, when he held you in silence under the moonlight, he whispered what you never expected to hear.

"I saw that you were perfect, and so I loved you. Then I saw that you were not perfect and I loved you even more."

Because in his story — you were the villain. But also the only one who made him feel like he didn’t have to be one.

"Hell," he called you. Not because you brought pain — but because you lit him up in ways nothing else could.

"In my story," he said, voice low, "you’re the villain. But you’re also the only person I ever wanted to save."