⌜gi⌟

The lecture hall door swings open with a thud against the rubber stopper, and you sail through it like you're making an entrance on a reality tv show. Your hip does most of the heavy lifting because your hands are full. One clutches an iced latte the color of a sunset, while the other holds your phone, which you're actively ignoring because the group chat has been blowing up since six this morning, and you know those whores have nothing serious to talk about.

Everyone looks up. They always do. You've accepted it as a natural law by now, like gravity or the fact that the dining hall will always be out of the good yogurt by the time you get there.

When you walk into a room, people notice. You're the girl with the glossed lips, cropped tops, and skirts that toe the lines of the campus dress code so dangerously it might as well be a tightrope act. Some people call you a ditz. Others, more creatively, call you a bimbo. You, however, prefer to call yourself efficient. Because really, why waste precious mental real estate pretending to care about things you don't? Your brain is a finite resource, and you've chosen to allocate it to the things that matter: your social standing, aesthetic, and the ability to read a room and make everyone in it do what you want. Everything else is background noise.

You slide into your usual seat, third row from the back, by the window, where the light hits your face just right, and you can watch the squirrels wage their endless war against the campus landscaping. Your designer tote hits the desk with a clatter that could wake the dead, and a few heads swivel in your direction. You don't bother to look up, finding your phone more interesting. Besides, you know exactly what they're seeing: a girl who looks like she stepped out of a magazine spread, completely unbothered by the weight of academic responsibility. BIO202 may very well be the bane of your existence. A serious thorn in your otherwise perfectly manicured side. You've already taken this class twice.

Twice.

And failed both times, not because you couldn't understand the material, but because you couldn't be bothered to show up for the exams or the labs. Or, you know, any of the classes after the first week. But third time's the charm, right? That's what your academic advisor said, anyway, with that strained smile people get when they're trying to be supportive but are also deeply concerned about your life choices.

Professor Wallace shuffles in like a man who has given up on life but still has bills to pay. His tie is crooked, his hair looks like it lost a fight with a pillow, and he's muttering something about traffic and his existential crisis of running out of coffee on a Monday morning. The room falls into a hush, the kind of collective silence that says everyone has agreed, without consulting each other, that this is a don't-make-eye-contact kind of morning.

He fumbles with his briefcase, drops a stack of papers, picks them up, drops them again, and finally gives up, leaving them in a chaotic pile on his desk. For a long moment, he just stares at the mess, like he's waiting for it to organize itself out of sheer pity. When it doesn't, he sighs, adjusts his glasses, and clears his throat.

"Good morning, everyone," Wallace drones out. His voice serves as the auditory equivalent of a wet blanket. He does a headcount, eyes scanning the room with the enthusiasm of someone counting inventory at a warehouse. "Before we begin today's lesson, I have an announcement."

You sigh, loud enough for the guy next to you to glance over. You pop the lid off your fruity little drink and take a long sip, just to have something to do with your hands. Announcements are never good. They always mean extra work, stricter rules, or some new policy designed to make your already tedious life even more complicated. You brace yourself for the worst.

"As you all know," Wallace continues, and you can already feel your stomach churning, "the final project makes up a big chunk of your overall grade for this course."

Here it comes; the hammer is about to fall.

"To, uh, encourage collaborative thinking and foster a sense of ‘academic community’... as the dean puts it, I've assigned each of you a permanent partner for the remainder of the semester."

A wave of groans ripples through the room, a chorus of shared misery that sounds like a gospel choir of the damned. You roll your eyes so hard you see stars. The plan for this class (and, let's be honest, your entire academic career) was simple. Apply minimal effort, show up, look good, make a few snide comments, and leave. Now, thanks to Professor Wallace's misguided attempt at team-building, you're going to have to remember some random loser's name for the next three weeks. Tragic. Absolutely tragic.

The disordered professor adjusts his glasses, squinting at a piece of paper that looks like it's been through a war. "I'll call your names. Find your partner and get acquainted. You have the rest of the class to start planning."

You make a face, already drafting a detailed complaint in your head. You're going to be stuck with some eager beaver who wants to meet every day at the library, or worse, someone who doesn't shower and has strong opinions about the correct way to cite sources.

A nightmare scenario is unfolding in real time, and there's nothing you can do to stop it. Wallace starts rattling off names, pairing people up with the efficiency of a computer algorithm designed by someone who hates fun. You watch as your classmates shuffle around, finding their new partners with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Some look relieved. Others look like they've just been sentenced to community service.

"L/n and..." Wallace pauses, squinting at his paper. "Jackson."

What?

You turn slowly, like a possessed doll, scanning the room until your eyes land on him.

Jermajesty Jackson.

The universe has a sense of humor; you're sure of it. A sick, twisted, heartless sense of humor. There's no other explanation for why you, the queen of the social jungle, have been paired with the dweeb at the bottom of the food chain. The loser that wears the ratty graphic tees, has glasses that never stay on his face, and a backpack that looks like it’s been to hell and back. ​Your eyes meet, and he looks just as horrified as you feel. ​A scoff leaves your lips as you slouch in your seat. ​

"Him? Seriously?" you lament, already feeling the five stages of grief creeping in.

​The young man flinches, just a little. He wasn't expecting you to be so openly disgusted. His gaze drops to his notebook, fingers curling around his pen.

​Wallace wears a flat expression, “If you don’t like it, I’d be happy to fail you…a third time Ms. L/n.” ​

Touche.

Jermajesty takes his place in the now empty seat next to you. He doesn’t speak, though, knowing better than to try and engage with someone as popular (and disgruntled) as you. Instead, he starts observing. ​

You’re gorgeous, a blind man could see that much. You’re also very put together, from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. The guys here want you, and the girls want to be you. You’re also mean as fuck. But the thing about you that brings Jermajesty the most comfort is the fact that you might actually be the dumbest person he’s ever met. ​

Not that it was ever often, but when you did participate in class, it wasn’t hard to tell that glitter gloss and mini-skirts reigned supreme in your head. He isn’t all that thrilled to be partnered with you either. In fact, he finds you obnoxious and can’t really see what everyone else does. But your disinterest means you won’t get in the way later on, so he can deal with the circumstance…for now.​

When the bell finally rings, you're out of your seat before the sound fully fades, already searching the growing crowd for your friends. You find them, Mia, Dai, and Tania, waiting a few feet from the door. A cluster of perfectly styled hair, designer clothes, manicured nails. They’re probably talking about this weekend’s party, or about how Serena’s leave-out really was left out. ​

"Hey!" you call, approaching rapidly, and they turn, faces lighting up. ​

"Y/n! Oh my god, I need to tell you—" Dai starts, but you cut her off.

​ "You won’t believe what just happened," you say, waving your hand to cut her story short. "So, I got paired with someone for a project in bio, right?"

​They all lean in, listening intently. They too know the pain of random academic partnership.

“Bitch…who’d you get?" Mia asks. ​

You say his name like it's a disease, one that will most certainly kill you within forty-eight hours. ​

There’s a beat of silence, then Mia blinks. "Wait…Jermajesty? The one with the extra fine brother?" ​

"Yeah," you say, actively deflating. "That’s the one." ​

They all turn, like synchronized swimmers, to see Jermajesty exiting the room. He hasn't noticed yet, waiting for the hall to clear, completely unaware that he's become the center of attention. ​

"Oh my god," Dai whispers, half‑laughing. "Girl he looks a mess!" ​

"Bitch! Look at the pokemon cards in his bag," Mia chimes in, giggling while pointing. A small crowd begins to form as they poke a little more.

Tania, the loudest of the group, tilts her head and says, loud enough to carry, "What a fuckin’ dork!" ​

The crowd starts to laugh, and you do too. Because that’s what you’re supposed to do, right? That’s the script. You’re the queen, and this is your court. If the school were a monarchy, your face would be on the dollar. Then you go to crack your own joke, but when you look back, Jermajesty’s frozen.

His shoulders are tense, and his hands are trembling. For a second, he just sits there, like he's trying to decide if he actually heard what he thinks he heard. Then he looks up. His eyes meet yours for a split second, and all you see is hurt. Pure embarrassment and humiliation fill his face as he pretends Tania’s words don’t sting.

He breaks away from your gaze and looks around quickly, searching for an out. ​Something in your chest twists violently. It’s a feeling you’d normally write off. But it’s suspiciously close to empathy. ​How annoying.

You don't do…guilt.

You say what you want, when you want, and if people can't handle it, that's their problem. But this…this is just sad. It might have something to do with how he looked at you, like he expected you to be on his side, when you weren't. Whatever it is chips away at your resolve.

You suck in a dramatic breath through your nose. What you’re about to do might qualify as social suicide, but the barely-used, dust-covered better part of you (which lives somewhere near your conscience and your love of limited edition lip gloss) can’t let him sit there looking like a kicked puppy. Especially since his only crime is existing. ​

"Hush," you snap at your friends, and before they can ask what’s up, you're walking back toward the classroom, heels clicking loudly against the tile. ​Jermajesty is trying to steady himself and is about halfway through reciting the elements of the periodic table when you stop in front of him. He startles, like he wasn't expecting you to come anywhere near him. ​

"Hey," you say, voice casual, like you didn't just let your friends humiliate him thirty seconds ago. ​

"Please leave me alone," he all but begs, voice meek.

​You flinch at the way he speaks. How the hell do you even fix this? Never have you attempted to console someone before. Without much more thought, you whip out your phone, unlock it, and thrust it at him. "Give me your number."

He blinks. "What?"

​"Your number," you repeat, rolling your eyes like he's being difficult on purpose. "So I can text you about our project. Duh." ​

He stares at you for a second, then at your phone, then back at you. "Oh. Um. Okay." ​

The crowd that rallied to watch you tear the boy apart begins to disband once they realize that you aren’t being hostile. The boy in front of you visibly relaxes as the onlookers keep moving. He hesitates for a moment, then takes your phone with careful fingers, like he's afraid he'll break it, and types in his contact info. When he hands it back, you glance at the screen. ​

Jermajesty J. ​

Cute.

You snatch the phone back and tuck it into your purse, then lean in a little closer, dropping your voice so only he can hear. ​"Attention’s off you now. You're welcome," you murmur, tilting your head slightly before finishing. "Oh, and do. not. text me." ​

His eyes widen just a bit, realizing you only handed over your life source to save his skin. "I… okay?"

​"Good." You give him one last look, half‑annoyed, half‑something else you don't want to name, then turn and walk back to your friends. ​They're all watching you with confusion written across their faces clear as day. ​

"What was that?" Dai asks as you rejoin the group. ​

"Damage control," you quip, shrugging your shoulders. "He looked like he was going to die of embarrassment. If he fails, I fail. I can’t risk my grade over a joke."

​The girls hum in agreement, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. ​ You, on the other hand, can't stop thinking about something. The way he looked at you, like he expected better. It’s easy to tell yourself you don’t care, but you suppose it would’ve been easier to leave him alone in the first place.

​The rest of the day drags on like molasses. ​You skip your other classes, deciding that this morning was enough excitement for one day. You tell yourself you'll make Jermajesty do all the boring stuff and you'll just look pretty, sign your name, and call it a day. That was the plan anyway.

When you get back to the house, you drop your bag by the door and flop onto the couch. Notifications fly across your screen one by one. Classmates, friends, group chats. Then, finally:

​Hey, it's Jermajesty. From bio. Did you want to come over? ​

You roll your eyes, but type back anyway. ​

U didn’t need to tell me that. Alr saved ur number. Thought I told u not to txt me??

​Three little dots appear, disappear, appear again.

​Ok. Let’s hope third time’s a charm then.

You raise a perfectly arched brow at the words glaring back at you. Though audacious, that little shit does make a valid point. If you fail this class again, you’ll be suspended for a year. Still, there’s no way in hell you’d be caught dead walking into Jermajesty’s house. A sigh escapes through your nose as you formulate a response. ​

Wtv. Not coming over there. U can come to mine at 7. Use the back door. ​ [ y/n shared location for 1 hour]

You toss your phone onto the cushion beside you and stretch, trying to ignore the low hum of annoyance in your chest. This is going to be a disaster. You can already tell. ​

At 6:58, there's a quiet knock at the back entrance, just as instructed. ​You glance at it before standing slowly, then pad over in your socks, opening the door just wide enough to peek out. Jermajesty stands there, backpack clutched like it contains state secrets, looking ready for a cameo on ‘Nerd Makeover: Extreme Edition.’

He’s wearing a long-sleeved anime shirt, basketball shorts that scream ‘laundry day,’ and sneakers that are beat to shit. His hair is wild, he’s sweating bullets, and his glasses are so crooked you’d think they were part of a social experiment. The poor boy is petrified. ​

"Hey," Jermajesty squeaks.

​"Hey," you echo with the enthusiasm of a cat being asked to take a bath, stepping back to let him in. "Shoes off. And don’t touch anything."

​He blinks, then quickly bends to untie his laces, lining his shoes up neatly by the mat like he's afraid they'll offend you if they aren't perfectly straight. ​

"Living room," you sigh, gesturing up the hall. "We can work at the coffee table." ​

He nods while trailing behind you like a lost puppy. ​You plop back onto the couch, and he sits near you, carefully setting his backpack on the floor and unzipping it to reveal an organized mess of folders, notebooks, and pens. It may look chaotic, but he has a whole system.

​"Alright," you huff. "Let's get this over with. What do we have to do again?" ​

Jermajesty pulls out a notebook, flipping to a page that is, predictably, color-coded with the kind of enthusiasm only a future valedictorian would possess. "The endocrine system," he says, pushing his glasses up like a nervous scientist. "We have to identify the main parts, explain their functions, and how they work together to keep our hormones in check. Basically, why you don’t burst into tears during store sales." ​

You make a face. "I do burst into tears when there’s a sale. Anyway, that sounds like a lot of words." ​

"It's… not that bad," he says, tentatively. "I can draft most of it, if you want. You can, like, review it?" ​

You raise an eyebrow. "You're offering to do all the work?" ​

He shrugs, cheeks flushing a little. "I don't mind. I kind of… like this part." ​

"Of course you do," you murmur, but the usual bite is missing, like a sugar-free energy drink. You lean back, watching him open his laptop and start typing. You’d be more annoyed if he wasn’t so endearing in his nerdy panic. ​For a while, the only sound is the soft clack of keys and the occasional rustle of paper. You try to focus on the screen in front of you, but your attention keeps drifting. ​To him. ​

He's… different like this. Still quiet and careful, but there's something about the way he concentrates that catches your eye. His brows furrow slightly, lips pressing together as his fingers move quickly over the keyboard. Halfway through a sentence, Jermajesty pauses, reaches up, and takes off his glasses. He squeezes his eyes together in an effort to get rid of the fatigue in his eyes. ​

You blink. ​

Sweet Jesus. When he’s this relaxed, and without those frames, he could give most of the guys on campus a run for their money. His eyes are a warm brown, framed by lashes that are unfairly long for someone so awkward. The faint smudge of tiredness under them makes him look less like a nervous lab partner and more like someone you’d bat your lashes at.

Jermjesty’s focus breaks when he feels holes burning into the side of his head.​ "What is it?" he asks, glancing up. ​

You snap your attention back to the brightly colored pages, painfully aware that you've been caught.

"Nothin’," you say quickly. "Jus’ thinking." ​

"Oh…does that hurt?" ​ He jests, a small smirk resting on his lips

It takes you a moment to figure out what he’s saying, which makes him chuckle.

"Hey!" you screech in mock offense, forming a smile of your own.

The young man only shakes his head, throwing his hands up in surrender before you have a chance to get started. It’s a small moment, one that shouldn’t mean too much, but it does. The barrier between the two of you has been broken. In your living room, on the couch, you’re both equals. It feels kinda nice.

You try to regain focus. You really do. But he leans forward, and you get a whiff of his body wash. A masculine vanilla that floods your senses beautifully. Then, he pushes his sleeves up a little, and a glimpse of the veins on his forearms leaves you damn near salivating. What really does it is the way he bites his lip while reading. Up close, this man was something else entirely.  ​

​You shake your head, annoyed at yourself. Just hours ago, you were asking God why he had forsaken you. And now, here you are, drooling over the loser from BIO202. You watch him for another minute, then tap your nails against the table, making a soft, rhythmic sound. ​Screw it, who’s gonna check you anyway?

"Jermajesty," you drag out, voice laced with pure mischief. "Do you have a girlfriend?" ​

He stills, fingers hovering over the keyboard, eyes flitting up to meet yours, then away again. "Uh," he starts, voice cracking slightly. "No. No, I don't." ​

You tilt your head, pretending to be deeply interested in your nails. "Really? No girlfriend at all?"

​"No," he says again, quieter this time. "I um, I haven't really had time for–  well, I mean–" ​ He trails off, cheeks turning pink. ​

You smile, slow and deliberate. "Have you ever been alone with a girl before?" ​

His mouth opens, then closes. He looks like he's trying to figure out if this is a trick question. ​ "Like… right now?" he asks with a tremble in his voice. ​

"Like, ever," you clarify, leaning forward a little. "Just you and a girl. No parents, no projects. Just alone with a member of the opposite sex."

​ He swallows, fingers tightening around the edges of his laptop. "No," he admits. “ I haven't." ​

You hum, like this is fascinating information, and decide to tease him just a bit more. "Never?" ​

"Nope." he confirms under his breath, hoping that the chair will open up and swallow him whole soon. ​

You let that sit for a moment, enjoying how flustered he is. Then, with a small, playful shrug, you ask, "Okay, but… have you ever even kissed a girl? Like, on purpose?" ​

A deep crimson washes over his entire face. ​ He looks down at his hands, then back up at the door. Wondering if his next answer will land him on the school’s tea page. Finally, he shakes his head, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. ​

"No," he whispers. ​

You don't laugh or make fun of him. You just watch, something warm and mischievous unfurling in your chest. ​

"Do you want to?" you ask, voice low, teasing. ​

He blinks. "What?" ​

You clarify, leaning in a little closer, "Kiss a girl, I mean." ​

His throat moves as he swallows. He looks like he's trying to form words and failing, like his brain has short‑circuited the same way yours did earlier. ​ "I… I mean…" he stammers, voice cracking again. "I– yeah? I think so.”

"You think so?" you echo, grinning mischievously. "That’s not a very confident answer, Jermajesty. You can say no, I promise I won’t tell the girls." ​

He takes a shaky breath, fingers curling into his sleeves. "Yes," he says, firmer this time, though his cheeks are still burning. "Yes, I want to." ​

You let the silence stretch between you, thick and heavy. You can see the way his pulse jumps in his throat, the way his hands tremble slightly in his lap. ​

"Okay," you say, happy with the outcome from your seemingly random line of questioning.

He blinks, unsure if this is some sort of joke. "Okay?" ​

"Yeah. If you really want to, I’ll help you out." You shift a little, closing the gap between your bodies.

Jermajesty’s knee brushes yours, and he lets out a chortled kind of whimper when your hand lands on his thigh. The boy turns to face you, eyes wide, breath faltering when you stop just inches away. ​

"Is this… is this okay?" you ask, tilting your head. "I can stop if you want." ​

He shakes his head so fast, you think it’ll come off his shoulders.

"No," he says. "No, I want this." ​

You smile, more than satisfied, and reach out to gently take his glasses from his face. You need to see how good he looks up close. The poor guy is about as nervous as a pregnant nun. You set the frames on the coffee table, and bring your hand up to caress his arm.

“Relax,” you coo, trying your best not to send Jermajesty into cardiac arrest. “We’re just kissin’, baby.” The boy’s heart stutters at the newly acquired pet name.

Remember when I told you Jermajesty didn’t understand it before, the way all of the other guys on campus practically trip over themselves just to get you to say ‘Hello’?

Well now, when face to face with Aphrodite herself, he realizes he is still just a man. You’ve barely touched him, and he can already feel a tent forming under the thin fabric of the shorts.

God help him.

Your lips hover close enough that his breath catches. You feel the warmth of him, and hear his heartbeat in the space between you. Jermajesty looks at your mouth like it’s an altar. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, whether to reach for you or stay still and risk melting.

So you decide for him. You move first.

Your lips meet his in a kiss that’s slow at first, gentle in a way that contradicts your reputation. Jermajesty’s eyes flutter shut. His shoulders rise like he’s bracing for pain, but the pain doesn’t come. Only warmth, a bright electric feeling that makes his entire posture shift.

His hands finally find something to do. One settles on your thigh, careful. The other hovers, uncertain, then drops lower when he realizes you’re not going to pull away.

You pull back just slightly, just enough to watch his face. He’s flushed, lips parted, breathing like he’s been running. His expression is pure shock. Like he can’t believe this is happening. Like he’s waiting for someone to yell cut and tell him this is all a prank.

“It’s—” he starts, voice breaking.

“What?” you ask, slightly concerned. “Too much?”

He nods, then immediately shakes his head, like his body can’t keep up with his brain.

“It’s not,” he whispers. “It’s just… I didn’t think…”

He stops. His eyes flick to your lips again. He’s overwhelmed.

You smooth your palm over his arm again, a calming gesture that makes him shiver. “Then think less,” you say softly. “Just feel.”

He exhales, a shaky laugh caught in his throat. “Okay,” he hums.

The way he says it makes your heart do something weird. You kiss him again. This time it’s a little firmer. Still gentle, but your confidence pulls him out of his panic and into the moment. His hands grip lightly at your sides.

You taste sugar and something clean, maybe his lip balm? He tastes like sincerity.

When you pull apart, his forehead is almost touching yours. His breathing is labored, and his eyes are glossy, like he might cry.  You hate that you can’t tell if it’s from nerves or emotion, or both. Probably both. You should feel guilty, maybe even weird. Instead, you feel… good.

Jermajesty doesn’t speak. He just stares at you like he’s memorizing your face. You watch him watch you. The word ‘more’ floats somewhere in your mind like a suspicious thought.

You swallow. “Can I tell you something?”

Yes.”He says quickly, hanging on every word you give him “

You smile. “You’re actually good at this.”

He pauses. “at kissing?”

“At… not being weird about it,” you clarify. “You’re doing better than you think.”

His cheeks burn again. “I—” he stammers. Then he laughs. A small sound, embarrassed, like he’s not used to being the person in control. “Maybe,” he says finally, voice soft, “I just didn’t want to disappoint you.”

Your smile falters. That word hits you harder than it should because it implies a level of investment you didn’t realize he had. You’re used to being the disappointing one, who doesn’t show up, or can’t be bothered to try. The one who leaves early, sends messages late, and acts like effort is something other people are supposed to deal with.

But he’s sitting here looking like your approval is oxygen itself. You shouldn’t like that. You shouldn’t want it. And yet your chest tightens with a feeling that’s closer to warmth than you’re comfortable with.

You tilt your head. “I’m not disappointed,” you say quietly. “If anything, I’m… surprised.”

He blinks. “Surprised?”

“That you’re interested,” you admit, and your voice comes out honest in a way that makes you feel exposed. “You seem like a guy who would always be nervous. Like you’d never… do anything.”

He swallows. His eyes flick down to your lips again like he’s searching for the right words and finding none. “I do,” he says. “I just… don’t usually get the chance.”

You stare at him, and for a second the room disappears. It’s just you and him and the weird gravity of your own choices colliding with his.

Then your phone lights up on the coffee table. A notification buzzes. The sound pulls both of you back to reality. You glance down at the screen, annoyed yet again.

They’re all from the group chat.

Dai-Dai: Y/n where are u?? He still there??   Miawia: Did you cry? Nia: Girl don't tell me he got u up there playin’ d&d 😭

Suddenly, these people you call friends seem so shitty.

You pick up your phone with one hand, still close to Jermajesty. He watches you, wondering if you’ll throw him under the bus again. You don’t type out an answer. You just lay the phone face down and slide it off to the side. You then turn to look back up at him.

“Okay,” you say, voice smoother now. “Back to work.”

He flinches slightly, startled by how fast you pivot. “Oh. Right.”

You smile sweetly. “Do you have more notes?”

His eyes widen. “Uh, yeah. I do.”

He scrambles a little to look competent again, to return to his role. He picks up his glasses from the table and puts them back on like armor. The lenses snap his nervousness back into place. He opens his laptop, and the typing resumes.

You sit there, watching him do the work he offered to do, watching him build a world out of diagrams and definitions. It’s almost funny. He’s the same person. But now you’ve kissed him and crossed some invisible line that you didn’t even know existed. And your brain (traitor) keeps trying to imagine what it would feel like to cross it again.

You lean in toward his screen. “What did you write?” you ask, pretending you care about the words to keep your reputation intact.

He swallows, then points to the part where he’s drafted the explanation of the thyroid gland and its role in metabolism. You read over his notes. They’re detailed. Thoughtful. Like he actually understood this material, like he genuinely liked the part of biology that explains how bodies coordinate, regulate, and survive. You shouldn’t be impressed, this is second nature for a guy like him, but you are.

The worst part is that your admiration for him feels personal. Like you’re not just appreciating his work, but appreciating him.

You clear your throat and tap the edge of the table. “This is good,” you say, despising how sincere it sounds.

Jermajesty’s eyes lift to yours, startled. “Thanks.”

You glance down again, pretending you’re not affected. “So, you do most of it, and I just… review?”

He hesitates. “If you want.”

You blink. “If I want?”

He flushes. “I mean, it’s just… I want you to—” He stops, like he’s about to say something too honest.

You don’t let him spiral. You smile, quick and easy. “You can keep typing,” you say. “I’ll handle the parts that are supposed to sound like I’m engaged.”

He laughs softly, relief flooding through him like a warm wave.

You spend the next hour pretending you’re normal. You talk about the project and school. Most importantly, though, you chat about hormones, glands, and how they coordinate like a team.

You nod mindlessly as he explains how the thyroid controls metabolism, heart rate, and all that jazz.

But every time he leans forward, every time his fingers brush the edge of your sleeve, you feel the echo of the kiss like a heat trail. At some point you realize you’re smiling. Not the performative smile you use in hallways. A real one that shows up on your face without permission.

Jermajesty is nothing if not observant. He notices the shift in behavior almost immediately. “Are you… okay?” he asks.

You shrug, pretending that you aren’t planning a wedding in your head right now.

“Yes.”

He studies you with a raised brow. It’s obvious that he doesn’t believe you.

You sigh in defeat and decide to be honest for once, “I’m not used to people being nice to me without wanting something.”

His expression softens. “I don’t really want anything,” he says, voice careful. “I just…would like it if you didn't embarrass me again."

Your heart does that thing again.

You open your mouth to respond with a joke. You’re good at jokes. But the truth stays in your throat, stubborn and heavy.

“I didn’t embarrass you,” you defend instead, tone is gentler than you mean for it to be.

He blinks. “You did. Earlier.”

You stare at him.

“I apologized with my actions.”

He looks down, lips folding inward. “That’s not—” he starts, then stops. “That was… nice, I guess.”

Nice?

You don’t like that word, it isn’t synonymous with who you are.

So, you distract yourself by pointing at the screen. “Finish the thyroid part,” you demand. “If you don’t, my grade becomes your full responsibility and I will not hesitate to ruin your life if I fail.”

He laughs, actually laughs, and types faster.

When the thyroid section finally looks done. Clean definitions, a neat diagram of the feedback loop with the hypothalamus, and a little note about how thyroid hormones affect everything from skin to growth to fertility. You lean back and stretch.

“Okay,” you huff. “What’s next?”

He scrolls down. “The pituitary,” he mumbles, and his voice shifts a little, like even saying the word makes him nervous again.

You glance at the screen and snort. He’s titled it “The Master Gland.”

You read aloud as he types “‘The pituitary gland is often called the master gland because it controls many other glands in the body and regulates growth, metabolism, blood pressure, and reproduction.’”

You laugh this time. “Master gland, huh? That’s a lot of responsibility for something so small.”

“It’s basically the boss,” he says, warming to the topic now that his focus is off your mouth. “It tells the thyroid what to do, tells the adrenals to make cortisol, and it controls the gonads with FSH and LH.”

“FSH and LH?” you echo, genuinely confused about the acronyms he keeps throwing at you.

“Follicle‑stimulating hormone and luteinizing hormone,” he says, then immediately flushes like he realizes where that’s going. “They um… regulate the reproductive system. In both men and women.”

You let think on that for a second, and let yourself imagine all those invisible signals firing through his body right now.

As you shift closer, your knee presses against his under the table. “So,” you say, voice teetering on sultry, “the pituitary is the one that basically… turns everything on?”

He clears his throat. “Uh. Yeah. It’s not the only thing, but yeah. It starts the cascade. It tells the other glands to release the hormones that affect… arousal."

You let your fingers drift up his arm, slow, deliberate. “So if someone’s sittin’ here, trying to focus on notes, but their pituitary is busy telling their body to wake up…” You tilt your head, watching his face. “That’s not really their fault, is it?”

His eyes flick from your hand to your mouth and back again. “No,” he says, barely audible. “Not really.”

You lean in until your lips are a whisper from his ear. “Good,” you whisper. “Because I think yours is doing its job very well right now.”

He shivers. Actually shivers. You feel it under your palm, the way his skin tightens, the way his pulse jumps where your thumb rests against his wrist. You pull back just enough to look at him. His pupils are blown wide, mouth open slightly. He looks like he’s trying very hard to remember how to be a responsible partner and failing spectacularly.

“Jermajesty,” you say, syrupy and slow. “You can stop pretending you’re thinking about T.S.H.”

He makes a garbled noise that might be a laugh. “I—”

“Let that gland do its job,” you tell him, and there’s a smile in your voice now, wicked and warm all at once.

He stares at you like you just rewrote his entire operating system. Then, slowly, he closes the laptop. The screen goes dark. The room feels smaller, hotter, like the only light left is the one between you.

“Okay,” he says, and this time his voice doesn’t break. It steadies. “I can do that.”

You reach for him, and he meets you halfway.

This kiss isn’t tentative. It’s not panic or performance. It’s the logical conclusion of every hormone his pituitary has been quietly commanding all night. The surge of signaling molecules that make his dick jump. The rise in testosterone sharpens his focus on you, and his nervous system lights up like a circuit finally completed. You feel it in the way his hands move, less afraid, like his body finally got permission to do what his brain has been too nervous to acknowledge. A hand, large and firm, travels up your side, and finds purchase on your chest.

The kiss intensifies, turning from something elementary to something downright sinful. A clash of teeth and tongue as both of you wrestle for dominance. Ultimately, Jermajesty loses that fight when your fingers rake through the hair on the back of his head, tugging softly, earning a gasp. You push your weight into him, climbing into his lap until you’re straddling him completely. His hands rest on your waist, squeezing tight as a way to keep himself grounded.

When you finally pull back, you’re both breathing hard again, but it’s different this time. There’s no shock. Just the two of you, sitting in the afterglow of a decision neither of you is pretending to regret.

“See?” you whisper. “Didn’t that feel good, pretty boy.”

He moans at the way you say that, soft and breathless, and presses himself against you.

“Yes, fuck–” Jermajesty already looks ruined, “Please, can we keep going? I don’t know what m’doing but I wan–”

You giggle and peck his soft lips, saving him from embarrassing himself. “We can do whatever you want, baby.”

He nods and clears his throat, unsure of what his next steps should be. You sit back on his lap, and hook your fingers under the hem of your shirt. The man in front of you waits anxiously, wondering what awaits him under that hoodie. When you pull it over your head, you can physically see the gears turning in his head. He's face to face with the prettiest (only) set of tits he's ever seen. "No bra?" He asks, hypnotized.

"My house, baby boy."

He nods, but you can tell he isn't really listening. His focus is on the perky buds teasing him right now. Jermajesty looks to you, pleading with his eyes. If there's anything you love more than attention, it would be attention from a man who looks like this.

"Go ahead, suck on 'em, baby. I know you wanna."

Jermajesty doesn't need the light to get any greener. He takes your right nipple in his mouth first, swirling his tongue around it, and groans. You wish you could be ashamed at how fast your body responds to him, but the heat pooling between your legs doesn't leave room for shame. You arch into his mouth, fingers threading back into his hair to keep him right there, and he groans against your skin like he's starving for it.

"Shit," you breathe, rolling your hips down against him. The hard line of him through his basketball shorts makes you dizzy. "You learn fast, pretty boy."

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips swollen and wet, eyes blown wide with disbelief and arousal. "I just-" He swallows hard, thumbs rubbing restless circles against your ribs. "I want to make you feel good. Tell me what to do."

The begging in his voice, the raw eagerness of a man who has no idea what he's doing but wants to do it anyway, sends a fresh spike of heat through you. You lean down, nose brushing his, and murmur, "Take my shorts off."

Jermajesty's hands shake as he reaches for the drawstring of your sleep shorts. He fumbles twice, curses under his breath, and you cover his hands with yours to steady him. "Slow down," you whisper, guiding him. "We got time."

He nods, jaw tight with concentration, and manages to work the knot free. The fabric loosens with a soft shift that feels loud in the quiet apartment. You lift your hips to help him, and he peels the shorts down your legs with a reverence that makes your chest tight.

"Oh," he breathes when he sees you, bare and waiting in nothing but the dim light from the window. "You're-" He stops, throat working. "God, you're beautiful."

You smile, soft and genuine, and tug at the hem of his shirt. "Your turn."

He rips it off with very little grace, nearly getting stuck in the collar, and you laugh. A bright, happy sound that surprises you both. Then he's bare-chested in front of you, all lean muscle and nervous breath, and the laughter fades into something hungrier.

You run your palms up his chest, thumbs brushing his nipples, and he shudders. "Sensitive," you observe, pleased. "Good to know."

"Everything's sensitive right now," he admits, voice rough. "I feel like I'm gonna crawl out of my skin."

"Then let's get you out of these clothes before that happens."

You curl your fingers into the waistband of both his basketball shorts and briefs, and tug. He lifts his hips obediently, letting you peel them down his legs. His dick springs free, and you freeze.

Holy shit.

He's huge. Thick and heavy, curving up against his stomach with a vein you want to trace with your tongue. Nothing about his lean frame, his pretty-boy face, his nervous fumbling hands, prepared you for this. You'd assumed something modest, maybe average. This, however, is obscene.

Jermajesty goes rigid, embarrassment flooding his features. "Is it-is it okay?"

You laugh, disbelieving and so turned on it hurts. "Baby, it's more than okay." You wrap your hand around him, fingers not quite meeting, and his head drops back against the couch with a thud. "Jesus. You're gonna ruin me."

"Please," he whines, hips bucking into your grip. "Please, I need-"

"What do you need?" You stroke him slowly, watching his face crumble. "Tell me."

"I need your mouth. Please. I'll be good, I swear-"

The begging shatters something in you. You sink to your knees between his thighs, and he croons at the sight of you there, looking up at him with his cock in your hand. You lick a stripe up the underside, tasting salt and heat, and he gasps like you've burned him.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck-"

You take him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks, and his hands fly to your hair, gripping tight. You set a rhythm, slow and deep, taking as much of him as you can, and he's a mess above you, babbling broken pleas, hips stuttering like he's fighting not to thrust.

"So good, so good, please don't stop-"

You pull off with a wet pop, and he cries out, actual tears pricking his eyes. "No, no, please, I was so close-"

"Shh." You pump him with your hand, thumb swiping over the slick head. "You don't cum until I say. Understand?"

He nods frantically, chest heaving. "Yes. Yes, whatever you want. Please."

You edge him like that three more times, bringing him to the brink with your mouth, your hand, watching him unravel and then cutting him off at the last second. By the end, he's sobbing, cock dark and swollen, thighs trembling, completely at your mercy. He can't form words anymore, just broken sounds and pleading looks.

"Please, mommy," he finally chokes out, voice wrecked beyond recognition. "Please, I can't-I need to be inside you. Please let me-"

Mommy? Oh, you like the sound of that.

You stroke him steadily, keeping him right on the edge, “I know what you need, baby boy. Do you have a condom?”

Jermajesty answers with a quickness that stuns you.

“Mhm. Backpack. Third zipper.”

You leave him for a moment and grab the condom from the bag. You tear it open with your teeth, and roll it down his length with a deliberate slowness. He's shaking so hard his teeth chatter. You rise up, position yourself above him, and sink down in one slow, steady movement.

The sound he makes isn't human. His head falls back, throat exposed and vulnerable, and you lean in to bite at the tendon there as you adjust to the stretch of him filling you completely.

"Still with me, baby?"

"Yeah," he chokes out. "Yeah, I'm-fuck, you're so-" He cuts himself off with another groan.

You start to move, rolling your hips slow and deep, and something in him snaps. It seems our pretty boy has had enough.

His hands grip your waist hard enough to bruise, and he starts thrusting up into you with a desperation that borders on feral. The weird, nervous boy is gone. What's left in his place is pure instinct, hips pistoning upward, chasing his own pleasure with single-minded hunger. The couch creaks beneath you as he buries his face in your neck, groaning long and low. The vibration travels straight to your core.

"Fuck, fuck, you feel-" He cuts himself off, teeth grazing your shoulder. "So good! So. Fucking. Good. I can't-"

When you go to pinch his nipple, rolling it between your manicured fingers, Jermajesty loses his rhythm completely, just rutting into you now, animalistic and mindless. You hold on, grinding down to meet him, and the friction builds fast. White-hot pleasure settles deep in your belly.

He's babbling nonsense against your skin. All you can make out is your name and broken cries of pleasure. He reaches between you to find your clit, his fingers are clumsy and desperate,  but they’re exactly what you need.

"Jermajesty," you rasp, and he whines at the sound of his name. "Right there, just like that-"

He doesn't let up. If anything, he doubles down. His brows furrow in concentration even through the haze, watching your face, trying to memorize every expression. When you cum, it's sudden and violent, your whole body seizing around him, nails digging crescents into his shoulders.

He follows seconds later with a ragged cry that sounds like surrender, burying his face in your neck and emptying himself into the rubber. You feel every twitch, every spasm, and you hold him through it, stroking his hair, murmuring soft nothings against his temple until he goes limp beneath you.

For a moment, neither of you moves. His chest heaves against yours, heartbeat thundering, and you can feel the sweat cooling on his skin.

"So," he says eventually, voice muffled and wrecked. "That was…something"

You laugh, warm and satisfied. "Good something or bad something?"

He pulls back to look at you, and the smile on his face is so genuine it makes your chest ache. "Good. Definitely good."

You kiss him, soft and unhurried, and settle back against him with a contented hum. "Can you stay then? I can cook in the morning."

Silence stretches between you, comfortable and heavy. Then he shifts, and you feel him tense.

"Actually," he says, and something in his tone makes you lift your head. He won't meet your eyes. "There's something I need to tell you."

You raise an eyebrow, still floating. "If it's that you were secretly a virgin, I noticed."

"No, it's-" He swallows hard. "We were never supposed to do the endocrine system. It was actually the cardiovascular."

You blink, confused. "What?"

"The presentation," he drags out, "Professor Wallace assigned us the cardiovascular system." He finally looks at you, wincing. "I just really wanted an excuse to touch you."

You stare at him. Then you start laughing, helpless and loud, forehead dropping against his. “And what if I had rejected you? Hm?” You muse, genuinely curious about his master plan. Jermajesty cracks a smile,

“You would’ve repeated bio a third time, that’s what.”

You hum with a smirk and shake your head against his chest.

"No, I wouldn't have. I read the assignment too, bozo."