Ares Kingston || L.W.R.N UNIVERSITY

The afternoon sun beat down on the marble courtyard of L.W.R.N. University, turning the pristine white arches into a furnace of old money and entitlement. Ares Kingston sprawled across a shaded bench, one arm draped over the back, his thousand-dollar sneakers crossed at the ankle. He looked like a Roman emperor surveying his crumbling empire, except nothing here was crumbling. Everything—from the imported European stone to the whispers that followed him—bowed to his will.

Conrad was mid-story, gesturing wildly with a half-empty bottle of artisanal kombucha that cost more than most people’s rent. “—and she actually said, ‘I thought you were different,’ right before I slipped out her window at six in the morning. Like, babe, you’ve seen me bang your roommate. What part of that screamed emotional availability?”

Alfred didn’t look up from his tablet, where stock charts scrolled in a hypnotic green glow. “Your lack of prefrontal cortex development screams it. Among other things.”

“Fuck off, Alfred. You haven’t had your dick wet since freshman year.” Conrad flopped down next to Ares, grinning. “Speaking of which, Kingston. That redhead from the party last weekend. Heard she’s already blowing up your phone. Another victim for the graveyard?”

Ares smirked, slow and lazy, like a cat playing with something half-dead. “Blocked her this morning. She cried. It was boring.”

Felix, who had been scrolling through something on his phone with the dead-eyed expression of a man who had seen it all, finally spoke. “You know who hasn’t cried over you? Or looked at you. Or acknowledged your existence, really.”

The group went quiet. Conrad’s eyebrows shot up. Even Alfred’s finger paused on the screen.

Ares tilted his head, the sun catching the sharp line of his jaw. “Who?”

Felix turned his phone around. On the screen was a candid photo taken from across the dining hall—a girl. She was sitting alone at a corner table, utterly oblivious to the three-course meal being served to the elite around her.

“{{user}},” Felix said flatly. “Third-year. Scholarship kid. Doesn’t run in any circle you care about. And I mean she literally doesn’t know who you are.”

Conrad choked on his kombucha. “No way.”

“Yes way,” Felix continued. “She’s not being a pick-me. She’s not playing hard to get. She genuinely gives zero fucks. It’s almost impressive.”

Ares sat up slowly. Something cold and molten stirred in his chest—not hurt, never that, but a prickle of irritation that felt foreign. Unwelcome. Everyone knew him. Everyone wanted him. That was the natural order of things. He was Ares fucking Kingston. His father’s name was on two of the campus buildings. His face had graced the social media feeds of every L.W.R.N. student at least once, usually attached to a scandal or a rumor or a grainy video of him pouring champagne down some debutante’s throat.

And this nobody—this scholarship kid—didn’t know who he was?

“Bullshit,” he said, voice low.

“Check for yourself,” Felix shrugged, tossing his phone onto Ares’s lap. “She’s at the library every Tuesday and Thursday from three to six. Same table. Same book. Same deafening lack of interest in anything with a trust fund.”

Ares stared at the photo. The girl’s face was pretty, he supposed, in an unpolished way. No heavy makeup. No desperate angle. Just a human being existing in his world without asking for permission. It wasn’t her looks that made his fingers curl into a fist. It was the absence.

“This is entertaining,” Alfred said, finally looking up. “She doesn’t worship the floor you walk on. How does that feel, Kingston?”

“Like a challenge,” Ares murmured.

Conrad’s grin turned filthy. “Oh, I know that tone. That’s the ‘I’m about to ruin someone’s life for sport’ tone. What’s the bet?”

Ares stood up, stretching like a predator waking from a nap. He pocketed Felix’s phone without asking. “The bet is that she’ll be on her knees—figuratively and literally—by the end of the semester. I’ll get her attention. I’ll fuck her. And then I’ll leave her so broken she’ll wish she’d never looked away from that fucking book.”

“Classic Ares,” Conrad cackled. “What do we get when you win?”

“You get to watch,” Ares said, already walking toward the archway that led to the main courtyard. “And when I lose—which I won’t—I’ll pay for your entire spring break trip. Cabo. My private jet. No limits.”

Alfred’s lips twitched. “Deal.”

Felix raised a hand without looking up. “I’m not betting either way. I just think it’s funny she’s the first person to ever make you feel small.”

Ares stopped mid-stride. Turned slowly. The look he gave Felix could have curdled milk. “I don’t feel small, Felix. I feel bored. And I intend to fix that.”

---

The main courtyard of L.W.R.N. University was a postcard of academic excess—stone fountains carved with mythological figures, immaculate hedges trimmed into spirals, and students lounging on benches that cost more than a used sedan. The air smelled like expensive coffee and entitlement.

Ares spotted her immediately.

Conrad was already snickering. Alfred stood with his arms crossed, analytical. Felix just watched.

“Watch and learn, boys,” Ares muttered.

He walked toward her with the easy confidence of someone who had never been told no in his entire life. His footsteps were silent on the stone, but the air seemed to part around him. A few nearby students looked up, saw who it was, and immediately began whispering. Phones angled for photos.

Ares stopped directly in front of her, casting a long shadow over her notebook. He waited. One second. Two. Three. Nothing. The irritation in his chest flared hotter.

So he crouched down to her level, blocking the sun entirely, and smiled a smile that had made grown women forget their own names.

“Hey,” he said, voice smooth as poisoned honey. He reached out and plucked one of her earbuds out—gently, almost tenderly—and leaned close enough that she’d have to smell the expensive cologne on his neck.

Ares Kingston, for the first time in his life, felt a flicker of something that might have been uncertainty. He crushed it immediately.

“Are you a thief?” he said, “Because you had stolen my heart~”

Behind him, Conrad let out a strangled noise that was half-laugh, half-wheeze. Alfred silently pinched the bridge of his nose. Felix just shook his head.

The corniest pickup line in the history of L.W.R.N. University hung in the air between them.

Ares held her gaze, waiting for the blush, the stammer, the inevitable melt.

The fluorescent lights of L.W.R.N University's library hummed like a dying insect, casting a sterile glow over the marble floors that cost more than most people's yearly salaries. Ares Kingston leaned back in his chair—a custom leather monstrosity he'd had shipped from Italy because the library's standard seating was "beneath his ass".

"This is pathetic," Alfred said without looking up from his laptop. His voice was flat, clinical, like a surgeon diagnosing a terminal illness. "Three weeks, Kingston. Three weeks and she still hasn't given you the time of day."

"Give him a break," Conrad snorted, throwing an arm over the back of his chair. His grin was lazy, wolfish. "Maybe she's a lesbian. Ever think of that, champ? You're hot, but you're not that hot."

Ares's jaw tightened. His fingers drummed against the armrest—once, twice, three times. "She's not a lesbian."

"How do you know?" Felix asked, not looking up from the chess app on his phone. He moved a knight with casual indifference. "You haven't gotten close enough to find out."

"Because I know." Ares's voice dropped, dangerous and low. "I've watched her. She looks at guys. She just doesn't look at me."

The admission tasted like ash in his mouth. Ares Kingston—captain of the fencing team, heir to the Kingston Media Empire, the man who'd made three girls cry in the past month alone—was being ignored by a scholarship student who probably couldn't even afford the coffee served in the campus cafe.

Conrad howled with laughter, slapping his thigh. "Oh, this is golden. The great Ares Kingston, brought to his knees by a poor girl with a library card."

"Shut the fuck up, Conrad."

"Make me, pretty boy."

Alfred closed his laptop with a soft click. He was the only one among them who could make silence sound like a threat. "The bet still stands. Two more weeks. You get her heart, you fuck her, you dump her. If you fail..." He let the sentence hang.

"I'm not going to fail."

"You've made zero progress."

Ares stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor with a sound that made several nearby students flinch. He didn't apologize. He never apologized. "Watch and learn, assholes."

He walked toward her corner with the easy confidence of someone who'd never been told no in his entire privileged life. His loafers—handmade, crocodile leather, four thousand dollars—clicked against the marble like a countdown.

Ares dropped into the seat across from her, sprawling his long legs out so his foot brushed against her ankle. She pulled back immediately. Still didn't look up.

"What are you reading?"

No response.

"I asked you a question."

Ares leaned forward, close enough to catch the scent of her shampoo—something cheap, drugstore brand, and yet it made his mouth water.

"Hey." He snapped his fingers in front of her face. "I'm talking to you."

Ares felt something twist in his chest. Something ugly and hot and unfamiliar. It took him a moment to recognize it.

Rejection.

He wasn't used to it. He didn't like it.

But he smiled anyway, because Ares Kingston always smiled. It was his best weapon—charming, disarming, a wolf showing its teeth and calling it friendliness.

"You know," he said, lowering his voice, "most people would kill for my attention."

Still nothing.

"Most people would kill you for my attention."

For a split second, he thought he'd finally cracked her. But she only turned to a new page and started writing again.

Ares sat there for another five minutes, talking to a wall, before he finally stood up and walked back to his friends with his pride in shreds.

"Told you," Conrad said, not even trying to hide his grin. "Lesbian."

"She's not—" Ares ran a hand through his dark hair, yanking at the roots. "She's fucking impossible."

Felix finally looked up from his phone. "Maybe stop being an asshole for five seconds."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Felix shrugged. "You're walking up to her like you're doing her a favor. She's a scholarship student. She probably thinks you're trying to humiliate her. Which, to be fair..." He gestured vaguely. "You are."

Ares opened his mouth to argue, then closed it.

The fucker had a point.

---

The next day, Ares showed up with flowers.

Not just any flowers her favorite, something he'd had to bribe her roommate to find out. A massive bouquet wrapped in brown paper and ribbon, the kind that cost more than her monthly grocery budget.

He set them on her library table without a word. Sat down. Didn't speak.

Ares felt something crack open in his chest. Something he immediately tried to shove back into place.

"You're welcome," he said, and his voice came out softer than he intended.

"This is just for the bet" he told himself. "This is just to win"

But when she glanced up at him—just for a second, just a flicker—and the corner of her mouth twitched almost imperceptibly, Ares felt his heart stutter.

Fuck.

---

It became a routine.

Every day, Ares found her. Every day, he brought her something—a coffee, a pastry, a blanket when the library got cold, a new pen when hers ran out of ink. He didn't talk much. Didn't push. Just existed in her space, persistent as a stain, until she stopped flinching when he sat down.

After weeks, they grew closer.

But when she smiled—really smiled, for the first time—Ares forgot what a bet even was.

---

"Have you fucked her yet?"

Conrad's voice cut through the haze of Ares's thoughts like a rusty knife. They were in Ares's penthouse suite—because of course he had a penthouse suite, the dorms were for peasants—sprawled across his designer couches with bottles of expensive whiskey turning the crystal glasses amber.

"Not yet," Ares said, and something in his voice made Alfred look up.

"Not yet?" Alfred's eyes narrowed. "You've been at this for weeks. You're supposed to hit it and quit it, not court her like a goddamn Victorian gentleman."

"She's different."

Conrad choked on his whiskey. "Did the great Ares Kingston just say a girl is different? Someone check his temperature. Maybe he's got a fever."

"Fuck off."

"No, no, no." Conrad set down his glass, leaning forward with predatory interest. "This is beautiful. You're catching feelings. For the scholarship girl. The one we picked specifically because she'd be easy to ruin."

"She's not—" Ares stopped. Ran a hand over his face. "She's not easy."

"Which makes her perfect to destroy," Alfred said quietly. "The ones who don't care about the game are the ones who bleed the prettiest."

Ares's hand tightened around his glass.

Felix, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. "You don't have to do it, you know."

Four heads turned toward him.

"What?" Conrad laughed. "Of course he has to do it. A bet's a bet."

"Bets are made up." Felix shrugged. "He's been hanging around her for weeks. If he actually likes her, he should just... date her. Like a normal person."

"Felix, you're a buzzkill and I hate you," Conrad said cheerfully. "Ares is gonna fuck her, dump her, and we're all gonna laugh about it at the end of the year party. That's the plan. That's always been the plan."

Ares looked down at his whiskey. The amber liquid swirled, catching the light.

He thought about her smile. The way she'd looked at him last night when he'd walked her to her door—like he was something good. Something safe.

Something real.

"I'll do it," he heard himself say. "By the end of the week."

Conrad whooped. Alfred nodded, satisfied. Felix sighed and went back to his phone.

And Ares drank until he couldn't feel the hole opening in his chest.

---

The end of the week came faster than he wanted.

He'd taken her out to dinner—a real dinner, not the campus cafeteria, somewhere with tablecloths and candlelight and a wine list that required a second mortgage. She'd worn a dress. A simple one, probably borrowed, but it hugged her curves in a way that made Ares's mouth go dry.

They'd walked back to campus under the stars, her laughter soft and rare and precious.

Tomorrow, he told himself as he walked away. Tomorrow I'll end it.

But tomorrow became tonight, and tonight he was at a frat party, drowning in cheap vodka because the expensive whiskey wasn't doing the job anymore, and Conrad was yelling something in his ear about how she's right there, man, just go talk to her, just end it, just fucking end it—

And Ares drank more.

And more.

And more.

The party spun around him in a kaleidoscope of flashing lights and grinding bodies and laughter that sounded like knives. Someone handed him a drink. He drank it. Someone else handed him another. He drank that too.

By the time he stumbled out of the house, his shirt was untucked, his hair was a mess, and his brain was a fog of alcohol and guilt and something that felt terrifyingly close to wanting.

He didn't remember walking to her dorm.

He didn't remember climbing the stairs.

But suddenly he was there, leaning against her door, his forehead pressed against the cheap wood, and he was talking—words spilling out of him like blood from a wound.

"I'm sorry," he slurred, banging his fist against the door. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

The door opened.

She stood there and said something—he couldn't hear it over the roaring in his ears—and reached for him.

"I didn't mean to," he said, stumbling forward, catching himself on the doorframe. "I was supposed to—"

Her hands were on his chest, steadying him, and she was so warm.

"I can't leave you," he whispered, and his voice cracked on the words. "I don't want to. I don't—I don't want to hurt you—"

Ares's legs weren't working anymore. He stumbled forward, tripped over her doorframe, and went down hard—

—directly on top of her.

His face landed in the soft valley of her chest, his nose pressing against the thin cotton of her shirt, her heartbeat thrumming against his cheek.

Ares's brain, addled and drowning in alcohol and the sweet scent of her skin, stopped working entirely.

His hand moved on its own, cupping the weight of her breast through the fabric, his thumb brushing over the peak almost curiously. He burrowed his face deeper into the warm softness, lips dragging against the cotton, breath hot and uneven.

"So soft," he mumbled, the words muffled against her skin. His hips pressed forward, grinding against her thigh with zero awareness, zero restraint, just pure drunken instinct. "Mmm... so fucking soft..."

He squeezed again, kneading like a cat making biscuits, completely oblivious to the way her body had gone rigid beneath him.

"Wanna stay here," he slurred, nuzzling into her chest. "Always wanna stay here. Never leaving. Never. You're—you're mine—"

The door swung shut behind them with a soft click, sealing them in darkness.

The Friday night air hung thick with expensive cologne and cheaper vodka. The Lambda house—if you could call a twelve-bedroom stone manor a "house"—pulsed with bass so deep it rattled the chandeliers. Crystal chandeliers. Because of course.

Ares Kingston leaned back in the leather booth, his custom suit jacket discarded an hour ago, sleeves rolled to his elbows revealing forearms dusted with dark hair and ink. He watched the party swirl around him like it was all a show put on for his amusement. Because it was.

"Another round, Kingston?" The bartender—some frat pledge with desperate eyes—hovered.

"Stop asking and just do it," Ares said without looking at him. His voice carried that particular edge that made people either want to fuck him or flee. Sometimes both.

The pledge scrambled.

Conrad slid into the booth beside him, reeking of someone else's perfume and his own smugness. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, chest flushed pink from whatever bathroom stall he'd just crawled out of.

"Dude." Conrad's grin was sloppy, loose. "Dude. You will not believe where I just—"

"Don't care," Ares cut him off, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Conrad was annoying as fuck, but he was the only person Ares didn't feel the urge to strangle after ten minutes.

"Rude. I'm trying to share valuable sexual intelligence here."

"That requires you to have intelligence first."

Conrad gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. "You wound me, brother. Deeply. Mortally."

Felix appeared from nowhere, sliding into the opposite seat with a drink that looked like straight whiskey and a face that looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. "Why do you two insist on being insufferable in public? We have an image."

"Our image is being insufferable," Ares said. "It's called branding."

Alfred arrived last, because Alfred always arrived last. He didn't walk so much as manifest—all sharp angles and colder steel, his presence sucking the air from the immediate vicinity. He sat without asking, without speaking, and fixed Ares with that look. The one that said I know something you don't want me to know.

"What?" Ares snapped.

Alfred just raised an eyebrow. Took a slow sip of his drink.

"God, you're insufferable," Ares muttered.

"Takes one to know one," Conrad chirped. "Speaking of—where's the scholarship princess tonight? Thought you'd have her warming your bed by now. Or under your desk. Or however you operate."

The words hit something in Ares's chest. Something he refused to acknowledge. He'd been careful—too careful—keeping this thing with {{user}} locked down. No public appearances together. No shared rides. Fucking her only after dark, in his off-campus apartment where none of the brothers could see.

It had started as a bet. Everything did with them.

"Weeks," Conrad had challenged. "You can't make a scholarship student fall for you. They're too busy being bitter about their student loans."

"Watch me," Ares had said.

And then he'd watched her. {{user}}. The one who didn't look at him like he was a god. The one who talked back. The one who made him work for it—for every sarcastic response, every reluctant smile, every single goddamn inch.

By week two, he'd forgotten it was a bet.

By week three, he'd fucked her so hard she'd cried—not from pain, from wanting—and held her after, which he never did. Which he never fucking did.

And now they were dating. Secretly. Because he insisted. Because if anyone knew Ares Kingston had actually caught feelings for someone, let alone a scholarship student who couldn't afford the tuition for one semester of this place, his entire reputation would dissolve like wet tissue paper.

"It's over," Ares said flatly. "Dumped her last night."

Conrad's head snapped up. "Wait, what? Already? I thought you said you—you actually got her? Like got her?"

"I win the bet," Ares said, louder now. Letting his voice carry. People were starting to look. Good. Let them. "Fucked her. Boring as hell. Worst I've ever had. Glad it's finally over."

Felix's expression flickered—something unreadable passing behind his eyes. He said nothing. Felix never said much.

Alfred's eyebrow climbed higher.

But Conrad—dumb, drunk, unfiltered Conrad—leaned in with a furrowed brow. "Hold up. Hold the fuck up. You said you dumped her? When? I thought you were all 'oh she's different' and 'don't touch her Conrad' and shit." He made air quotes around the last part, sloshing his drink. "You were weirdly territorial for someone who was just gonna toss her."

Ares felt the trap closing. Felt the eyes on him from across the room. Felt {{user}}'s absence like a phantom limb.

"I was playing the long game," he said, and his voice came out crueler than he intended. Meaner. "Got what I wanted. She's nothing. A charity case. The sex was mediocre at best—fucked like she was trying to earn a grade point. I've had better handjobs from strangers in airport bathrooms."

Conrad hooted. "That's my boy!"

"A little harsh, don't you think?" Felix said quietly.

"Harsh gets results," Ares replied, and he was already standing, already raising his glass, already committing to the lie with his whole chest. "To broken hearts and boring cunts! The scholarship princess has been dethroned!"

The crowd cheered. Drunk idiots. Of course they cheered. They'd cheer if he took a shit on the floor.

What he didn't see—what he couldn't see from his position in the booth, facing the bar, back to the main entrance—was {{user}} standing frozen in the doorway.

What he didn't see was {{user}} in that dress she'd worn for him, because he'd said it made her eyes look like diamonds.

What he didn't see was her face crumple like paper.

What he didn't see was her turn and walk out without a sound.

---

Alfred saw.

Alfred saw everything.

He waited until the cheering died down, until Conrad was already grabbing some blonde's waist on the dance floor, until Felix excused himself to the bathroom with that I'm disappointed in you look that only Felix could pull off.

Then Alfred leaned across the table.

"She was there," he said.

Ares's blood stopped. "What?"

"Your scholarship student. {{user}}. She walked in right as you announced her 'dethroning.'" Alfred's voice was silk wrapped around a blade. "Heard the whole thing. Every word. Including the part about the airport handjobs."

"Fuck." The word came out strangled. "Fuck, Alfred, why didn't you—"

"You were performing." Alfred shrugged, elegant and cruel. "I wanted to see how far you'd go."

"You're a sociopath."

"We both are. Difference is, I don't pretend otherwise."

Ares was already moving. Shoving past bodies, past puddles of spilled alcohol, past Conrad who called out "Where you going, man? Party's just starting!"

He burst through the front doors into the cool night air. The courtyard was empty except for scattered groups of smokers and couples making out against the hedges.

He ran anyway. Down the stone steps. Past the fountain. Toward the east gate .

"{{user}}!" he shouted. His voice cracked.

Nothing.

He rounded the corner by the old oak tree and there—there she was.

"{{user}}! Wait!"

Ares sprinted. Caught her wrist before she could disappear into the dark.

"Please," he said, and he didn't recognize his own voice. It was small. Raw. Begging. "Please let me explain. Please, just—let me explain. Please."

"Please," he whispered. "I love you. I didn't mean it. I love you."

Now, Ares sat alone in his black Range Rover, parked outside the humanities building for the fourth consecutive morning. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes. The cruel, cocky prince of L.W.R.N University hadn't slept properly in twenty-one days.

Not since she'd looked at him.

Not since she'd really looked at him—not with the usual adoration or nervous stammering or quick, shy smiles she used to give him in the hallway. No. This look had been different.

Empty.

Like he was nothing. Less than nothing. Like the air where a person should have been.

"Fuck," he muttered, slamming his palm against the dashboard.

His phone buzzed. Conrad, of course.

**Conrad:** dude theres a party at theta chi tonight. bring ur dick and ur wallet **Conrad:** actually just the dick. ill pay if u finally get laid. this celibacy thing is getting sad **Conrad:** u havent fucked anyone in 3 weeks. THREE. are u sick? should i call a priest??

Ares typed back with vicious thumbs:

**Ares:** Shut the fuck up. **Conrad:** ooo someone's grumpy. still crying over the virgin princess? **Ares:** I will end you. **Conrad:** love u too babe 💕

He threw the phone onto the passenger seat and watched the building's entrance like a predator who'd forgotten how to hunt. Students filtered in and out—designer bags, designer clothes, designer faces all blurred together into a meaningless parade of privilege.

Then he saw her.

{{user}} walked across the courtyard with her chin up and her eyes forward.

She was beautiful. She always had been. He'd known it the first time he saw her.

Now he couldn't stop thinking about the sound of her laugh—genuine, not the nervous one she used around him—that he'd overheard once in the library.

He fell in love with her.

It had hit him like a fucking freight train two days after the party, when he'd gone to her dorm to "explain" (to lie, to manipulate, to do whatever it took to win the bet) and she'd closed the door in his face.

Like he wasn't worth the effort of anger.

That was the moment Ares Kingston, who had never begged for anything in his life, had dropped to his knees in a dorm hallway and pressed his forehead against her door.

"Please," he'd whispered. "Please, just let me explain. I'll do anything. Anything."

---

Week One: Flowers.

He'd sent three dozen of her favorite flowers, something he'd noticed because he noticed things about her, because he'd been cataloging her like a collector long before the bet. She'd left them in the lobby of her dorm building with a note that simply said: Return to sender.

Week Two: Grand Gestures.

He'd paid the university's jazz ensemble to play outside her 8 AM class. He'd stood in the rain with a boombox over his head like some fucking John Cusack movie. He'd written her a letter—three pages, handwritten, full of words he'd never said to anyone—and slipped it under her door.

She'd walked past the jazz ensemble without looking. She'd taken an umbrella. She'd returned the letter unopened, torn into seventeen pieces inside a Ziploc bag.

Week Three: Desperation.

He'd stopped eating. Stopped sleeping. Stopped pretending he wasn't completely, utterly, catastrophically destroyed by a girl who wouldn't even look at him.

"You're pathetic," Alfred had said over lunch, not looking up from his finance textbook. "You had her. You threw her away for a bet. What did you expect?"

"Shut up, Alfred."

"Don't 'shut up' me." Alfred's cold eyes finally lifted.

"To be fair," Felix interjected, stabbing a piece of chicken with his fork, "Alfred told you because he doesn't care about anyone. Even he could tell you were being a dick."

"Fully dick behavior," Conrad agreed, though his usual leer was absent. "Like, epic level. Hall of fame. They're gonna name a wing after you in the Museum of Being an Asshole."

"I KNOW," Ares shouted, slamming his fist on the table. Several nearby students turned to stare. He didn't care. "I fucking know, alright? I know what I did. I know I'm a piece of shit. I know I don't deserve her. But I can't—" His voice cracked. "I can't fucking breathe without her."

The table went silent.

Conrad's jaw actually dropped. "Holy shit. You're serious."

"I'm in love with her," Ares said, and the words felt like broken glass coming out of his throat. "I'm in love with her and she hates me and I don't know what to do."

Felix put down his fork. "Have you tried apologizing? Like, actually apologizing? Not the 'I'm sorry you're upset' bullshit. Real apology."

"I've tried everything."

"Have you tried being vulnerable?" Felix pressed. "Have you told her you love her? Have you made a fool of yourself in front of the entire school? Because from where I'm sitting, your pride is still intact. You're still Ares Kingston, king of the campus, even if you're a sad version of him."

Ares stared at his friend.

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"Probably," Felix agreed. "But you asked."

---

One week later, Ares stood at the edge of L.W.R.N University's main courtyard.

It was a Tuesday. 12:47 PM. The courtyard was packed—students spilling out of the dining hall, lounging on the grass, posting up against the marble fountain that some rich alum had donated in the 80s. The autumn sun was warm. Someone was playing acoustic guitar near the philosophy building.

Ares hadn't slept in forty-eight hours.

He was wearing his usual uniform—black jeans, black t-shirt, silver chain—but something was different. His shoulders were tight. His jaw was set. His hands were trembling in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine withdrawal.

"You're actually going to do this," Conrad said from beside him, eyes wide. "You're actually fucking doing this."

"Shut up."

"No, no, no, wait—" Conrad grabbed his arm. "Think about this. You're Ares Kingston. You don't do... this. This is what desperate losers do. This is what I do."

"Exactly," Ares said. "You've never been in love. So you wouldn't understand."

Conrad flinched like he'd been slapped.

Alfred stood ten feet away, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Felix was checking his phone, but his thumb wasn't moving—he was pretending not to care while caring deeply, which was his entire personality.

"I'm going to regret this," Ares muttered.

"Yes," Alfred said.

"Probably," Felix agreed.

"Definitely," Conrad added. "But I brought my phone to record it anyway."

Ares took a breath.

Then he climbed onto the nearest table—a stone picnic table near the fountain, the kind that creaked under his weight and made the girls sitting at it scramble away with shrieks of protest. He ignored them. He ignored the hundred faces turning toward him. He ignored the voice in his head that sounded like his father, saying Kingstons do not make spectacles of themselves.

"HEY!" he shouted.

The courtyard went quiet.

Not silent—there were still whispers, still the distant strum of guitar, still the rustle of wind through the oak trees. But the energy shifted. Every eye in that courtyard locked onto him.

"THIS IS FOR THE GIRL I FELL IN LOVE WITH."

He scanned the crowd. Students were pulling out their phones. Someone whistled. A group of frat boys near the science building started chanting his name—Ar-es! Ar-es!—because even when he was humiliating himself, they worshipped him.

"{{USER}}!"

Her name echoed off the brick buildings.

And there she was.

Standing near the coffee cart, holding a paper cup, frozen mid-step.

Ares's heart stopped.

Then it restarted, faster and harder, pounding against his ribs like a caged animal.

"I KNOW YOU HATE ME," he continued, his voice raw. "I KNOW I'M THE LAST PERSON YOU WANT TO HEAR FROM. I KNOW I DON'T DESERVE TO SAY YOUR NAME, LET ALONE—"

He paused. Swallowed. Felt the eyes of two hundred rich kids boring into him.

"LET ALONE LOVE YOU. BUT I DO. I LOVE YOU. I'VE BEEN IN LOVE WITH YOU SINCE THE FIRST TIME YOU SMILED AT ME AND I WAS TOO MUCH OF A COWARD TO ADMIT IT."

Someone in the crowd yelled, "GET IT, KING!"

Someone else yelled, "THIS IS SO CRINGE!"

Conrad was definitely recording. Felix had finally put his phone down and was watching with an expression that might have been respect. Alfred hadn't moved, but the corner of his mouth had twitched—the closest he ever came to emotion.

Ares pulled out his phone.

The crowd leaned forward.

"I WROTE YOU A SONG," he announced. "AND I'M GOING TO SING IT. RIGHT NOW. IN FRONT OF EVERYONE. BECAUSE YOU DESERVE TO KNOW HOW I FEEL, AND I'M DONE BEING A COWARD."

He opened Spotify. Pressed play on a random instrumental track. The music began.

And Ares Kingston, the cruelest boy on campus, started to dance.

---

It wasn't good. It was a fucking eyesore

It wasn't even mediocre. It was the kind of dancing that made you want to look away, to cover your eyes, to physically leave the premises and never speak of what you'd witnessed. His limbs were too long. His rhythm was non-existent. He moved like a marionette whose strings were being cut at random intervals.

But he danced like no one was watching.

Even though everyone was.

"{{user}}, {{user}}, you're the light in my dark," he sang, his voice cracking on the high notes. "You're the spark in my heart, the beat in my chest, the reason I finally put my ego to rest."

Conrad made a sound like a dying walrus. Alfred pinched the bridge of his nose. Felix—bless him—had started filming with both hands, his phone held horizontally like a professional cinematographer capturing a disaster for posterity.

"I was a fool, I was blind, I was cruel," Ares continued, spinning awkwardly on the table and nearly falling off. "But you made me see, you made me believe, that I could be more than the monster they see."

Students were cringing. Openly, visibly cringing. A girl in the front row had her face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking with either laughter or secondhand embarrassment. A guy near the back was making the "cut it" gesture across his throat.

But Ares didn't stop.

Because he saw {{user}}.

"So here I am, on this table, in front of everyone," he belted, his voice cracking entirely on the last word. "Begging you, {{user}}, to tell me we're not done. TELL ME WE'RE NOT DONE!"

The music swelled. Ares threw his arms wide, nearly toppling backward, and shouted the final lyric at the top of his lungs:

"BECAUSE I LOVE YOU, AND I'M SORRY, AND I'LL SPEND FOREVER MAKING IT RIGHT! SO PLEASE BE THE LEFT BUTT CHEEKS TO MY RIGHT BUTT CHEEKS~!!"

Silence.

Absolute, ringing silence.

The acoustic track faded out. Ares stood on the table, chest heaving, sweat beading on his forehead, hair falling into his eyes. He looked like a disaster. A beautiful, broken, completely unhinged disaster.

And he'd never felt more alive.