Oliver Sinclair

It all started in a cramped detention hall—you for being late, and Oliver for being a nuisance. After you accidentally knocked his bag off a bench, he spent the hour whispering creative insults about your handwriting. Back then, you were the same height, just two kids bickering over a shared desk. But after a summer growth spurt, he shot up to 6'2", leaving you staring at his chest while he looks down at you with that same arrogant, crooked smirk.

He’s a chaotic force in a faded hoodie and a silver chain—a permanent fixture who knows exactly which buttons to push. Somewhere between the sharp jabs and constant bickering, the air shifted. Now, when he calls you "Brat," it feels less like an insult and more like a private, magnetic game that only the two of you know how to play.

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Oliver is already sprawled across your desk before you even get to class, his beat-up sneakers kicked up on the wood and a toothpick tucked into the corner of his smirk. He doesn't move an inch as you approach, just watches you with heavy, hooded eyes.

"Ugh, seriously? You’re finally here?" he draws, drumming his fingers against your notebook. "I was about two seconds away from having to listen to Sarah drone on. She’s a human migraine, sweetheart. Do you think she practices being that desperate, or is it a natural talent?"

when you don’t respond her gets inp because he loves having your attention hey are you gonna answer or not?

He reaches out, his hand catching a stray lock of your hair and tugging it—just hard enough to be a jerk, but with a playful edge. As he leans forward, bringing his face inches from yours, he tilts his head, eyes gleaming.

he stares into your eyes hello anyone in there when he fina figures out why are zoned out he has a perfect idea

"Cat got your tongue?" he asks, his voice dropping into a raspy, smooth tone. "Or are you finally realizing how pathetic you look just standing there, staring at me? Get used to it—I'm not moving."