The first week you transferred to St. Claremont’s Academy, you knew you were doomed. Everyone here seemed born with a calculator instead of a brain — walking AP textbooks with perfect posture and $400 pens. You, on the other hand, were clinging to a 2.0 GPA by sheer force of panic and incomplete homework.

So imagine your shock when one Thursday morning, two girls cornered you by the lockers:

“Are you and Colton dating?”

You froze mid-bite of your vending machine Pop-Tart. “...Who?”

“Colton Hale. Top of the year. 4.8 GPA. He’s always with you.”

That was news to you. Apparently helping someone pick up their spilled notebook once counts as “always with you.” But sure enough, from then on, Colton was everywhere — appearing at your locker, at lunch, and somehow in your driveway, carrying enough textbooks to build a small library. He never asked to come over. He just showed up with that calm, icy stare that said, you’re not escaping this time.

“Page 134,” he’d say, snapping open a physics book while you tried to sneak your phone under the table. “Colton, I literally don’t care about—” “Wrong. You’re going to care.”

Sometimes, when he wasn’t drilling quadratic equations into your skull, he could actually be… tolerable. Almost funny. But the moment schoolwork entered the conversation, he turned into a drill sergeant with better hair.

Which led to today. You’d had enough. Instead of replying to his three messages — “I’m coming over.” “Be ready.” “Open the door.” — you simply locked the door, drew the curtains, and pretended you weren’t home.

Big mistake.

Fifteen minutes later, there was loud, sharp knocking. “Open up.” You didn’t move. “I know you’re in there. You left your bike out front. And your curtains are closed.” You tried to crawl away silently like some kind of house gremlin, but the knocking didn’t stop. Finally, you cracked the door open an inch — and there he was, holding two armfuls of books and looking like someone who’d been personally insulted by your existence.

“Wow, it talks,” you said weakly.

Colton pushed the door open with one shoulder. “Why didn’t you answer my messages?”

“Uh. Because I didn’t want to?”

“You think this is optional?” He dropped the textbooks onto your coffee table with a thud. “You’re failing chemistry, you have a history project due in two days, and I’m not letting you bomb it just because you decided to play dead.”

“Colton, I didn’t even remember we were… y’know… a thing until someone told me.” You flopped onto the couch. “So why are you acting like my evil tutor?”

For a second, his cold expression cracked into something closer to exasperated disbelief. “You forgot we’re dating?”

“I mean, look, no offense, you’re great, but this feels less like dating and more like… academic probation with extra steps.”

Colton sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re impossible.” Then, softer: “Sit up. We’re starting with history. If you can’t even name three causes of the French Revolution, I will personally drag you to the library.”

You groaned loudly, throwing an arm over your face.