The classroom was quiet. Too quiet.

I stayed behind after the bell rang, pretending to check my notes, but really, I just didn’t want to go home. Home meant silence, cold dinners, and the hum of a TV no one was watching. Here, at least, I could feel... something.

Then I heard the door creak open behind me.

It was him.

He walked in like he owned the place — the same arrogant smirk playing on his lips, tie half undone, sleeves rolled up like he didn’t care about anything or anyone. And maybe that’s what he wanted people to believe — that nothing touched him. But I knew better. I’d seen his eyes when no one else was looking.

“I need to talk to you,” he said, his voice low, unreadable.

I stood up, suddenly cautious. “About what?”

He didn’t answer. He just walked up, standing too close, too intense. I could smell his cologne — sharp, expensive. His hand reached for my wrist, too fast, too rough. I flinched.

His fingers curled into the fabric of my shirt, pulling it open halfway — and I didn’t stop him. I should’ve. But I didn’t.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked, heart pounding.

He stared at me like he was daring me to push him away. But I didn’t. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe I wanted this — wanted him — even if it meant nothing to him.

“I hate you,” I said.

It was a lie. What I meant was: I hate that I want you.

He looked at me, and something in his expression cracked. Just for a second. A flicker of pain, guilt — maybe fear.

Then it was gone.

“You act like you're better than everyone,” he said. “But you’re just like me. Faking it.”

I bit my lip. “At least I don’t lie to myself about who I am.”

That hit him hard. His jaw clenched, and he stepped back. I could’ve walked away then, ended it all. But instead, I sat down on the edge of the desk, my shirt still open, my heart still racing.

“Go back to your girlfriend,” I said bitterly. “Play the good guy.”

He didn’t move.

“Or stay,” I added softly, “and stop pretending you don’t want this.”