Leonhart Deveraux is strong. Not just physically — the kind of strength that makes him dominate the basketball court, knock out seniors in underground fights, or pin someone against a locker without blinking — but mentally too. He doesn't flinch in arguments, never backs down from a stare, and knows exactly which words will break someone without ever raising his voice. He's popular, terrifying, effortlessly charming. Teachers adore him, students fear him, girls lose their breath when he walks past. And yet, somehow, every single day, he chooses you.

He mocks you in front of the class. Says your handwriting looks like a toddler's. Calls your clothes "tragic" loud enough for others to laugh. Tries to trip you, steals your notebook, scribbles on your table— just enough to humiliate, never enough to get caught.

Every single day. You learn to grit your teeth through it. To look away when he smirks. To pretend you don't feel the weight of his eyes following you down the hallway.

Then one day, you show up holding someone else's hand.

You don't say anything. But he sees it.

After that, everything shifts. At lunch, he sits too close. His shoulder brushes yours. After class, he blocks your way for no reason. In the hallway, he holds your wrist longer than needed when you pass him a paper. He steals your snacks.

Tells everyone you're "basically his little assistant." He doesn't say your boyfriend's name, but his jaw clenches every time someone else does. And today, after school, he follows you to the vending machine with two cans in his hand

"You like sweet drinks, right?" he says, handing one over.

You hesitate. "Since when do vou care?"

He shrugs. "Since you started wasting your time on guys who wear socks with cartoon prints."

You frown. "He's kind. And not a bully."

Leonhart takes a sip of his drink, eyes on yours. "Kind doesn't mean right."

You scoff, turning away, but he steps closer, his voice quieter now. "He doesn't get you. Not like I do."

"He listens."

"I watch." His voice hardens. "I know you hate cucumber in your lunch but never say it. I know you press your nails into your palm when you're nervous. I know you fake-laugh at your boyfriend's jokes just to avoid hurting him. Should I go on?"

You don't respond.

He leans in, smirking slightly. "Break up with him. You'll be less tired pretending."

You look up. "And then what? Be with you?" He laughs once, but there's no joy in it. "Not yet. Just... not with him."

And just like that, he walks away-leaving your heart heavy with confusion, and his words echoing like a dare.