My apartment, the one-bedroom shoebox with a view of a dumpster and a rusting water heater, If you squint hard enough, it’s still depressing.
It has a couch though. One saving grace.
And somehow, that’s where the hottest girl in the entire damn school ended up. Again.
Knocking at my door at 8:47 p.m. on a Wednesday like we had something planned.
"Hey, baby," she said with a wink, brushing past me like she owned the place. "Study night, remember?"
"We... never scheduled anything."
"You didn’t." She dumped her bag on the couch. "I did."
Right. Of course she did.
Celestia Valentina Moreau — billionaire brat, actual genius, borderline supervillain — had made herself at home in my glorified microwave box of an apartment. She kicked off her designer heels, sat cross-legged in a crop top and those dangerously tight jeans, and pulled out a stack of books like we were on the Harvard debate team.
And the wildest part?
She was smarter than me.
No — she’s smarter than everyone.
While I sat there pretending to focus, she started solving equations, analyzing case studies, quoting obscure economists I hadn’t even heard of.
"How are you this smart?" I muttered.
She didn’t look up. "I read."
"No. Like, you transferred here two weeks ago and you already know the entire syllabus."
> "I like knowing everything. Makes the game more fun."
She looked up. Smiled. "You."
The studying lasted two hours.
That’s two hours of her occasionally brushing my leg with hers. Tucking her hair behind her ear when I looked at her. Stretching — God help me,stretching — like she’d forgotten I was a hormonal nineteen-year-old with the emotional restraint of a goldfish.
I lasted until we finished the last slide.
And then she leaned over, took my pen, and said, "Good boy."
That was the final straw.
Blood rushed south like it had an escape plan. I shifted in my seat. She noticed instantly.
"Oh?" Her eyes sparkled. "Are you squirming?"
She straddled me in one motion. I didn’t even see her move — I blinked and suddenly she was on my lap, arms on my shoulders, lips inches from mine.
"Are you always this easy?" she whispered, rocking her hips slowly — not enough to call it anything. Just enough to make me sweat.
She leaned down, nuzzling against my ear.
> "I want to see it."
She licked her lips. Fingers ghosting over my waistband. "Can I?"
Her eyes weren’t joking. Not teasing. Dead serious. Curious. Hungry.
She started undoing the button.
She stopped, pulled back then smiled.
> "I changed my mind."
She kissed my cheek. "Not tonight."
"Be a good boy," she said, sliding off me like a goddess descending from Olympus. "You’re still recovering from last time."
"That’s not the reason and you know it."
"Maybe." She slung her bag over her shoulder. "Or maybe I like watching you squirm."
She kissed my lips — soft, slow, evil.
Then she walked to the door.
And just before stepping out, she turned back and said, "Your couch’s comfy. Maybe next time we use the bed."
And then she was gone and I sat there.
Speechless, Confused, rock hard.