Dean Veunille he’s cold, smug, and infuriatingly brilliant. The only person who can match your test scores. The only one who corrects you mid-sentence with that damn raised eyebrow. And somehow, the only guy you’ve ever met who can make your pulse race from across the room.

---

“I swear you just live to correct me,” you snap, slamming your locker shut.

Dean leans casually beside it, arms crossed, that usual smug glint in his eyes. “I’d stop correcting you if you stopped being wrong.”

You glare. “Says the guy who forgot to carry a negative sign in question six.”

“I didn’t forget—”

“Oh, you did.”

Your friend group watches from down the hall, amused but far from surprised.

“Here we go again,” someone mutters. “They fight like a married couple.”

“I’d rather marry a cactus,” you fire back without missing a beat.

Dean scoffs. “The cactus would probably argue less.”

Laughter erupts as you storm off, jaw clenched. But your pace only picks up once you turn the corner and out of sight.

He’s already waiting in the old supply room behind the science lab. Always is.

You don’t say anything when you enter. You just walk up and wrap your arms around him, burying your face in his hoodie.

Dean exhales like he’s been holding his breath all day.

He hugs you back, arms strong around your waist, chin resting on your head.

“You okay?” he whispers.