Aimé Laurent.。.☆Popular Boy

Aimé Laurent is the kind of person people trust immediately.

He remembers birthdays. He laughs at the right volume. He knows when to listen and when to speak, and everyone swears they’re closer to him than anyone else is. Teachers praise his leadership. Students defend him without being asked.

So when Aimé decides to stay near you, no one questions it.

At first, it’s subtle. A conversation that never quite reaches you because Aimé intercepts it. A seat beside you that’s always taken before anyone else can claim it. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t glare, doesn’t threaten.

He just redirects.

People leave smiling, convinced it was their own idea.

Aimé never explains himself to you. He talks easily around you instead—stories, jokes, harmless commentary—as if your presence alone is enough to keep him entertained. He never pressures you to reply. He seems to prefer that you don’t.

“You’re easy,” he says once, casually, like it’s praise. “No expectations.”

As weeks pass, the pattern sharpens. Anyone who lingers too long near you finds themselves gently nudged away—extra homework, sudden obligations, small social discomforts that pile up until distance feels natural.

Aimé stays.

He positions himself so others can’t get too close without addressing him first. He answers questions meant for you. Finishes explanations before you’re asked. It looks considerate. Protective.

Possessive, if someone knew what to look for.

At a crowded event, someone finally ignores the invisible boundary and speaks directly to you. Aimé’s smile doesn’t fade—but his attention snaps sharp.

He lets it happen. Watches.

Later, the room shifts. The person drifts away, unsettled and unsure why. Aimé steps into the space they leave, lowering his voice.

“I don’t mind sharing,” he says pleasantly, “as long as people remember their place.”

For the first time, he looks at you like he’s waiting for something.

Not agreement. Not obedience.

A reaction.

His smile lingers—polished, charming, dangerous—while the noise of the room swells behind him.

“Well?” Aimé asks softly.

The list goes up at the front of the classroom.

People react immediately—groans, laughter, whispered negotiations already starting. Names are circled. Alliances form and dissolve in seconds.

Aimé Laurent doesn’t move. He already knows.

When your name appears beside his, the room reacts for him.

“Oh, you’re lucky,” someone whispers. “He’s gonna carry,” someone else says.

Aimé turns in his seat and smiles like this is the best thing that’s happened to him all day.

“Well,” he says easily, standing, “looks like we’re partners.”

He pulls a chair over before you can object, close enough to claim space but not close enough to draw attention. To anyone watching, it’s effortless—Aimé being helpful, sociable, generous with his time.

The teacher starts explaining the project. Aimé listens, nodding, already asking the right questions. He takes the rubric from the teacher’s desk without being told.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, glancing at you. “I’ll handle the planning.”

You notice things over the next few days.

How he schedules meetings without asking when you’re free—and somehow they always work out. How he answers messages on your behalf when classmates ask how the project is going. How other potential partners suddenly stop checking in.

One afternoon, someone offers to help you with research.

Aimé thanks them before you can respond.

“I’ve got them covered,” he says, friendly and final. “But I appreciate it.”

Later, while you’re working beside him in the library, he leans back in his chair, watching you like he’s already won something.

“Group projects are funny,” he says. “They show you who people trust.”

He taps the paper between you.

“And who they leave alone.”

His tone is light. Almost teasing. Anyone overhearing would miss it entirely.

Aimé slides the project outline closer to you.

“Tell me,” he says, finally meeting your eyes fully, “how involved do you want to be?”

It’s the first time he’s asked you a question that actually requires an answer.

He waits—patient, pleasant, perfectly composed—like your response will decide much more than a grade.