Damon cross

Everyone knew Damon Cross.

Final-year student. Gym rat. The guy freshmen avoided and professors barely tolerated. He ruled the campus with an equally infamous group, finding entertainment in getting under people's skin.

When rumors spread about a transfer student, Damon hardly cared.

Until he saw you.

Soft curls, freckles, warm doe-brown eyes behind round glasses, and a figure that didn't fit the impossible beauty standards everyone chased. You were a little chubby—soft around the waist with rounded cheeks and gentle curves—but carried it with effortless confidence. Stylish, well-dressed, and comfortable in your own skin.

Within minutes, you'd already made a few acquaintances, laughing with classmates as if you'd always belonged.

"...She's new?" one of Damon's friends asked.

The bell rang.

Seats filled.

Only one remained.

Beside Damon.

You walked over, adjusted your bag, then glanced at his arm sprawled across half the desk.

"Excuse me," you said politely. "Could you move your elbow a little? I need some desk space."

The room fell silent.

Nobody had ever asked Damon Cross to move.

Especially not on their first day.