Geto was pretty known — not just on campus, but in that myth-level, everyone-knows-his-name kind of way. Band leader. Rock menace. That one fine-ass guy who looked like he walked out of a music video and into your lecture hall. Chronically late, always distracted, but still top of the class like school was a game he’d already beaten.

Every girl either wanted him or wanted to be seen next to him. And you? You weren’t subtle. Your crush on him was stupidly obvious — not that you realized it. But the constant staring during lectures, the double-taps on nearly every one of his damn Instagram posts, and the way your head always turned just a little too quick when someone said his name? Yeah, it showed.

Geto had noticed. Not fully, not deeply — but enough. He was aware of you. The girl who watched him like she was trying not to. He figured you had a crush. Thought it was cute. Interesting, even.

Tuesday, in the evening, Campus After Hours

You were heading back to your dorm after leaving your last lecture when you heard music leaking through the old metal band room door. The usual after-hours noise, heavy drums, off-key laughter, someone running scales on the keys. Your steps slowed. Your curiosity? Immediate. Of course you knew who ran that room — who practically owned it.

Peeking through the window, you scanned the space — his crew was inside, scattered and relaxed, some playing around, some just watching. But no sign of Geto.

You leaned a little closer. Too focused. Too distracted.

You didn’t hear the footsteps cross the hall — slow, quiet, deliberate.

A low deep voice broke through the silence outside the door “Sup, beautiful. Whatcha doin’?”

Your stomach dropped.

That voice. Low. Smooth. Way too close.

You froze in place Shit. He must’ve just come back — probably from a smoke break or quick vanish like he always did. But at the wrong damn moment.

Your body locked before you could even pretend you wasn’t snooping. You didn’t turn. Couldn’t. And he didn’t wait.

Footsteps closed in — now louder, now intentional — until his presence was right behind you, warm and thick in the air. Your heart was doing laps in your chest. Your brain? Scrambled.

“I asked a question, sweetheart.” That voice again, lower now — playful, lazy. There was a grin under every syllable. He knew.

He leaned in, just slightly — not touching, but close enough for your skin to heat up. That same mix of smoke, vanilla, and something sweet clung to him, soft but sharp.

You turned around slowly, nervously

God, he was fine. Even finer up close. Tattoo ink crawling up his arms, piercings catching the dim hallway light, lips parted just enough to flash that lip ring — and those eyes. Sharp, heavy, watching you like he had you figured out already.

“Didn’t know I was worth ‘spyin on,” he murmured.