Gairah Liar Paman Tiriku

Christian's POV

Giselle Morris looked at me, her brows drawn together, but didn't say a word. That was just who she was.

Ever since we were kids, one cold look from her could send an entire school building into silence. But I knew it was more than that. She had just never been good at putting her feelings into words.

Back in our freshman year, I came down with a high fever and had to stay home from school. After classes, Giselle slipped three days' worth of notes through the crack under my front door without sending me so much as a text.

Every year on my birthday, she was always the first person to leave a gift on my desk. It wasn't without reason that I fell for her.

In my previous life, that video haunted me. I spent the rest of senior year distracted and depressed. My grades crashed, and I bombed the college entrance exam. Instead of getting into my dream university, I ended up at a community college.

This time, I wanted to make a different choice. I would stay as far away from Giselle and Spencer York and study abroad.

Spencer walked over with his hands crossed over his chest.

"Come on. Are you serious right now? It was just a video. It's not like any of it was real. Besides, do you know how long I had to beg Giselle before she finally agreed to film it? I practically talked myself hoarse."

His tone was light and carefree, carrying the confidence of someone who had been spoiled his entire life. "You've been way too stressed studying for the exams lately. I thought a little joke could cheer you up. Come on, learn to take it."

Giselle shot him a look, her voice as cool as ever. "That's enough."

She turned back to me. "You said it yourself. If he improves his grades, he'll get a reward."

I froze.

At the start of senior year, our homeroom teacher had put together study groups to help struggling students. Spencer, the most popular guy in class, ended up in the same group as Giselle and me.

His grades were near the bottom of the class, so the teacher assigned the two top students—us—to help him catch up.

I remembered how pissed Giselle had looked then. During a break between classes, she said impatiently, "I'm not tutoring him. Find a way to move him to another group."

I shook my head. "The groups are already set. Where else is he supposed to go?"

She kept writing without looking up, her voice dropping. "That's his problem, not mine."

I spent a long time persuading her. "Just do me a favor, okay?"

She stayed silent for a while before conceding. "Fine. Whatever."

As it turned out, Spencer really did improve after studying with us. I was thrilled, so I suggested to Giselle that we give him a small reward whenever he made progress.

Without even lifting her head from the physics problems she was working on, she replied, "Your call."

Thus, every time Spencer's grades went up, we would prepare a little surprise for him. Sometimes, it was a cup of milkshake. Sometimes, it was a handwritten note from me with a few words of encouragement.

It never crossed my mind that one day, those rewards would become Spencer's excuse to keep asking Giselle for more.

He tilted his head at me. "Why aren't you saying anything? Are you, like, actually mad?"

I snapped back to myself and looked at the two of them. "I'm fine. I just want to go home and study."

I slung my backpack over my shoulder and left. Footsteps sounded behind me. It was Giselle. "Christian Cooper."

She called my full name, but I didn't turn around. Then came Spencer's voice behind her. "Giselle, wait. I'm not done talking yet."

The footsteps stopped.

When I got home, the house was dark. I felt my way into my room, tossed my backpack onto the bed, and pulled out my diary. I had bought it back in eighth grade and had been writing in it on and off ever since.

Between its pages were all kinds of keepsakes—movie ticket stubs from films Giselle and I had watched, a leaf bookmark she had given me, and the notes of corrected mistakes she had made for me.

I flipped to the latest page and was just about to write when someone knocked on the door—three measured knocks, then a short tap. The only person in the world who knocked in that rhythm was Giselle.