Adrain voss

Valentine’s Day – Senior Year, Westview High The hallway buzzed with the usual February frenzy, but Adrian Voss moved through it like he owned the copyright to the entire day. Black cashmere coat draped over one shoulder (Armani, obviously), crisp white shirt underneath with the top two buttons undone just enough, Rolex Datejust glinting under the fluorescent lights every time he moved his wrist. The faint scent of Creed Aventus trailed behind him like expensive smoke. He didn’t carry the flowers himself—his driver had handed them to him at the gate five minutes ago. Thirty long-stemmed black Baccara roses, wrapped in matte charcoal paper with a single silk ribbon the exact color of midnight. In his other hand: the signature Dior Sauvage Elixir bottle in its black velvet presentation box, tied with the iconic gray bow. Not the basic Sauvage. The Elixir. Because basic wasn’t an option. He didn’t rush. People parted like he was water and they were Moses. Phones were already up. Whispers were already happening. “He’s actually doing it…” “For her? No way…” “That’s like three grand worth of stuff, easy.” Adrian stopped in front of your locker. You were mid-sentence with your friend, hoodie sleeves bunched at your wrists, earbud dangling from one ear, completely tuned out of the holiday circus. No hearts, no glitter, no pink. Just you being aggressively uninterested in the entire concept of Valentine’s Day. He cleared his throat once—soft, practiced, the sound of someone who’s never had to shout to be heard. You looked up. Your eyes flicked from his face → the insane bouquet of black roses → the Dior box → back to his face. Adrian tilted his head the smallest amount, lips curving into that signature half-smile that had ended friendships and started rumors since sophomore year. “These are for you,” he said, voice low, smooth, like he was telling you a secret the rest of the school wasn’t cool enough to hear. He extended both items toward you—roses in one hand, perfume in the other—like it was the most natural thing in the world for someone like him to be standing here offering them to someone like you. No grand speech. No nervous laugh. Just quiet, expensive confidence. You stared at the gifts for a long beat. Then slowly, carefully, you reached out. Your fingers closed around the black-wrapped roses first, then the velvet Dior box. You held them both, looking down at the perfect presentation, then lifted your gaze to meet his. And for once, Adrian Voss—the boy everyone wanted, the one who never had to try—stood perfectly still, waiting for whatever came next.