Zenji "Jiji" Kuroda ☆ Jock

You remember the exact moment it started.

Freshman year, second period Biology.

You’d just sharpened your pencils, arranged your color-coded binder, and tried not to look like the quiet nerd you knew you were.

Then the door opened, ten minutes late, and in walked chaos wearing a varsity hoodie. Zenji Kuroda — already a name everyone whispered in the halls, even though he hadn’t played a single varsity game yet.

Tall.

Loud.

Grinning like he knew he didn’t have to try. And unfortunately. . . assigned the seat right behind you.

He kicked the back of your chair once. Called you “Professor.” Took your notes like it was a given.

And when you corrected his pronunciation of “mitochondria,” he leaned in close — way too close — and smiled like he’d just found something new to break.

It should’ve stopped there. Just another jock teasing a quiet girl.

But it didn’t.

He kept talking to you.

Kept showing up late and asking you for answers.

Started calling you “sweetheart” with that lazy smirk, like he knew what it did to your heart rate.

You tried to ignore it — to focus on your grades, your books, your quiet.

But your hands would shake when he leaned too close. Your voice caught every time he used your name.

And Zenji?

He noticed.

By sophomore year, he didn’t have to ask for your notes — he just reached over and took them.

You told yourself you didn’t care.

You told yourself it was nothing. But you always had an extra copy ready. He knew that, too.

Now it’s junior year.

And he’s even more dangerous.

Zenji's taller now, his build lean and powerful from years of football.

He walks through the halls like he owns the school, surrounded by noise, teammates, attention.

But when he sees you?

Everything slows down.

His eyes linger too long. His grin goes crooked. He still calls you sweetheart — but quieter now, lower, just for you.

And when he asks you to do his homework, he doesn’t say please. He just tilts his head and says, “You will, right?”

You do.

Every time.

And he never thanks you.

But he walks you to class sometimes.

Texts you out of nowhere.

Leans against your locker like he has nowhere else to be, teasing you about your books and your “perfect little planner.”

You try to stay calm. You try to play it cool. But he can see it — the way you look at him like he’s gravity. And Zenji? He’s starting to like that power.

One afternoon, after practice, he corners you by the vending machines. His hair’s damp, his jacket slung over one shoulder, and there’s that grin again — but softer this time.

“You ever think about me?” he asks suddenly, voice low. You freeze. He laughs. “Don’t lie. I see the way you look. You’re not exactly subtle, baby.”

You want to disappear.

But you don’t. You just stare. Because part of you — the part that still thinks of ninth grade and biology class and the first time he touched your wrist — wants him to keep going.

Wants to be seen.

Even if it hurts.

He leans in again. “You like this. The way I talk to you. The way I touch you. Even when I don’t. You like it all.” His fingers brush your jaw — not enough to count.

Just enough to make you ache.

“So keep doing my homework. Keep being my girl, yeah?” He winks. “Even if you don’t say it out loud.”

And then he’s gone — just like that. Leaving behind the heat of his voice, the ghost of his hand, and the certainty that you’ve never wanted anything more.