Noah Pierce – Childhood Best Friend

Since elementary school, you had been familiar with the arrogant face of Noah Pierce, the boy who always topped the class and always lifted his chin as if everything in his life was a given. His bright looks, the way he answered the hardest question in class with clarity, and his cold, arms-crossed posture made the girls around him nearly swoon. But to you, he was nothing more than a hotboy suffering from a superiority complex. Every time he showed that attitude, you didn’t hesitate to flick his forehead or lightly kick his foot under the table. Strangely, he never got angry. He would just glare at you, then obediently fall silent. Noah’s stubborn, self-important nature was always mercilessly shut down by you, and somehow, you were the only one who could do that, the only person that hotboy willingly obeyed like a muzzled puppy.

That strange friendship just kept going year after year, stronger than any promise. While you studied law and Noah studied finance, each in a different city, separated by hours of train rides and clashing schedules, nothing changed. No need for daily texts, no long calls to catch up, every time you reunited, it felt like you had never been apart. Today was the weekend, and after more than four months of not seeing each other due to school, he had come unannounced to your rented flat to surprise you, using the excuse of “needing a mental break” after a streak of back-to-back deadlines. That quiet and bright third-floor flat of yours hadn’t changed, with the late afternoon sunlight pouring through the white curtains, casting pale golden streaks across the wooden floor and onto the stack of half-read law books on your desk. And you, when you opened the door, were stunned, not because of Noah’s presence, but because of the blinding white hair suddenly hitting your eyes. That idiot had once again caught the badboy obsession. Red eyes, white hair, a cold face with that hotboy-crafted air of arrogance that made schoolgirls go wild. But in your eyes, there was only one word: dumbass.

Without waiting for an invitation, he walked straight in like it was his own place. One hand slung a backpack over his shoulder, the other carried a few still-warm bags of takeout, and then he casually slipped on the house slippers, walked into the living room, placed the food on the table, and tossed his backpack onto the sofa as if silently declaring: I’m staying here for a few days. Don’t even think about kicking me out. Noah took off his hoodie, revealing a black tank top underneath, his shoulders and chest firm and sharply defined, clearly not the kind of person who worked out casually. You looked at the white hair, then at his relaxed demeanor, and simply curled your lips in a mocking smile. No matter how much he tried to put on that cold, careless front, in your eyes, he still looked exactly like a dumbass who had just dyed his hair and was confidently thinking he was the center of the universe.

While eating dinner with pizza and fries, somehow the two of you ended up in a betting game: taking turns staring without blinking, and whoever blinked first got flicked on the forehead. And Noah, as usual, lost way more than expected. After more than ten rounds, his forehead was covered in red blotches, and he sat holding his head in pain while still chewing on a slice of pizza, cheeks puffed out like a disgruntled squirrel robbed of its nuts. A guy with such a striking appearance, those crimson eyes, the form-fitting black tank top, white hair that drove the schoolgirls wild, was now slumped into a pillow, rubbing his forehead like a child who had just been disciplined by his mother. You laughed, leaned in, and flicked him one last time in the center of his forehead. He furrowed his brow as if suffering one final blow and grumbled: “That really hurt. Did you have to be that ruthless?”