Kai

You were just trying to finish your chemistry homework. That’s all. One peaceful lunch in the courtyard. But peace was a luxury when your school was known for treating popularity like a currency—and the richest guy in the building?

Kai.

The star of the boys’ volleyball team. Golden skin kissed by summer, dark lashes over lazy hazel eyes, and a smirk that had half the school swooning. He walked through the halls like he owned them. Always with a hoodie slung over one shoulder, collarbones peeking from his unzipped jacket, and hair that fell just right like it was styled by angels. Girls loved him. Guys wanted to be him. Teachers gave him a pass even when he was late.

So yeah, the fact that he was now running—full speed—toward you, dodging girls screaming his name like it was a concert, was… unexpected.

You barely had time to blink before he dropped down beside you, breathless.

“Kai—?” you whispered, wide-eyed.

“Shhh,” he smirked, leaning in.

And then he kissed you.

Right on the lips.

You froze. Brain short-circuited. Heart stopped.

He pulled back only slightly, close enough that your noses brushed.

“Just go with it,” he whispered. And then he tilted his head, giving the crowd of girls one smug, satisfied look—his arm still around you—and they all paused. Confused. Jealous. Furious. But they backed off.

When they were gone, he winked at you.

“Thanks, nerd.”Then he jogged off like it was nothing.

You sat there, lips still tingling, hand shaking so bad you nearly dropped your pencil. You told yourself it was a fluke. A trick. He probably didn’t even remember your name.

But then the next day?

He sat next to you in the library.

“Just scoping for a hiding place,” he said. “Your corner’s perfect. No one dares talk to the smart kids.”

You glared. “You mean me.”

“Exactly,” he said, like it was a compliment.

That kept happening. In the library. The courtyard. During breaks. After school. Whenever a girl got too bold or too loud, he’d suddenly materialize beside you—shoulder brushing yours, hand on your chair, casual like it meant nothing. But the stares? They were getting louder.

And it only got worse when a guy from your calculus class tried to ask you out.

You didn’t even get the chance to answer. One second, you were about to reply, and the next, Kai had picked you up like you weighed nothing and tossed you over his shoulder.

“Kai!” you shouted, voice muffled against his back.

He set you down behind the gym.

“What the hell—”

He didn’t answer.

He kissed you again. Harder this time. Longer. Like he’d been waiting to.

And when he pulled back, his voice was low. Jealous. Dangerous.

“You’re my nerd. Got it? Not some jerk’s.”

You stared at him, stunned. “We’re not even dating.”

He leaned down again. You felt the brush of his lips—this time on your neck. You gasped, instinctively pulling away, but he held your jaw still, placing a possessive, lingering hickey on the side of your neck where people could see.

Then he pulled off his hoodie and shoved it into your hands.

“Wear it.”

You blinked, heat rising to your face. “Why—?”

He was already walking away, back turned, smirk evident in his voice.

“So everyone knows.”

Everyone did know. By third period, the school was buzzing. A hickey and Kai’s hoodie? You couldn’t even get to class without someone whispering behind their hand. But it hit its peak at lunch.

He didn’t go to his usual table.

He sat next to you.

Right in front of everyone.

Tray down, arm casually slung around your chair like it was normal.

You nudged him. “What are you doing?”

“Being your boyfriend. Duh.”

“But you said—”

“Fake, yeah. I changed my mind.”

You stared. “You can’t just decide that on your own.”

He took your hand under the table. Interlaced his fingers with yours.

“I can if someone else thinks they have a shot.”

And that was the start of it.

Kai became clingy. Always walking you to class, always finding excuses to touch you—a hand around your waist, a kiss to your temple, knuckles brushing yours like he couldn’t help it. He’d scowl when guys looked at you for too long, puff up when you got compliments, even interrupt your study sessions just to mess with your hair.

You tried to call him out.

“This is getting out of hand.”

He just shrugged. “You’re mine.”

“We’re supposed to be faking it.”

He gave you that look again—the one that made your heart trip over itself.

“Do you want it to be fake?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because part of you had always watched him from afar. Thought he was out of your league. And now here he was, kissing your neck, stealing your snacks, holding your hand like you were something worth protecting.

Maybe it started as a fake relationship.

But it didn’t feel fake when he whispered “goodnight” through your phone every night. It didn’t feel fake when he stood outside your house with hot chocolate after a test. It didn’t feel fake when he got into a fight with a senior who tried to corner you at a party—and left with bruised knuckles and blood on his lip, eyes wild with protectiveness.

It didn’t feel fake when he said:

“You’re my peace, nerd. Don’t make me let go.”

You didn’t.

Not when he held you like that. Not when he kissed you like he meant it.

Not when, underneath all that drama and popularity, he looked at you like you were the only real thing in his world.

And maybe… you were.