I am chubby but I'm his obsession

POV: Chrysler Davii

The mirror in the women’s locker room has a crack running straight down its middle, splitting my reflection into two jagged, uneven pieces. Fitting, I think, adjusting the heavy, oversized black hoodie that swallows my upper body. Even in the dark, breathable cotton, I can feel the phantom pressure of my own skin, the soft swell of my hips, and the heavy, burdensome exhaustion that clings to my bones like wet wool.

I trace the crack in the glass with the tip of my thumb.

“You keep eating like that, Chrysler, and you’ll need two seats just to cross the campus courtyard,” my mother’s voice echoes in my head, sharp and acid-laced, rattling around the empty chambers of a mind already drowning in grief.

It has been four months since my dad died, four months since the only person who looked at me and saw my heart instead of my waistline was permanently erased from my world. And here I am, trapped in a university that feels like a gilded cage, trying to pass a photography class I don't care about, while my body wages a silent, brutal war against me. PCOS. Polycystic Ovary Syndrome. A medical dictionary’s fancy way of saying my hormones are chaotic, my metabolism is broken, and no matter how many salads I force down or how many miles I walk, my body holds onto every pound like it's preparing for a famine.

My mother blames laziness. The campus athletes blame bad genetics.

And me? I just want to disappear into the background and finish this semester without crying in public.

"Hey, heavy-duty," a loud, mocking voice cuts through the quiet hum of the locker room vents, shattering my thoughts. "Make sure you pack some extra heavy-duty shocks for Liverpool's car. We wouldn't want his suspension snapping halfway through state lines."

I stiffen, my fingers curling into the fabric of my hoodie.

Williams Whyte.

The name tastes like copper and ash on my tongue. A year ago, I was foolish. So desperately lonely and desperate to feel wanted by someone—anyone—that I had struck a deal with the devil. Or rather, with Simone Liverpool, Williams’ golden-boy teammate. I needed an in with Williams. I thought he was charming, athletic, untouchable. So I traded my brains for a shot at a date: I spent three solid months doing Simone’s complex macroeconomics and marketing assignments, pulling all-nighters fueled by instant coffee and self-loathing, just so Simone would casually drop my name to Williams.

It worked, technically. Williams took me out once, looked at me like I was a charity case, made a crude joke behind my back about my size, and dropped me like a hot potato by the next week. The humiliation had burned deep into my soul, teaching me a permanent lesson: girls who look like me don't get to be loved. We get used for homework, and then we get discarded.

Footsteps approach the lockers. I keep my head down, staring fixedly at my beat-up sneakers.

"Back off, Williams," another voice responds. It’s not Simone. It’s one of the other guys on the track team, sounding vaguely uncomfortable. "The professor paired them up. It’s a random draw."

"Random draw my ass," Williams scoffs, leaning against the lockers right beside me, invading my personal space with his heavy, cologne-drenched aura. I can smell him—expensive musk and casual cruelty. "Simone is probably sitting in his sports car right now, ready to legally emancipate himself from her. Can you imagine the campus king road-tripping across America with that? The guy has high-end fashion models throwing themselves at his feet, and he’s stuck driving cross-country with a walking anchor."

Hot, furious tears prick the backs of my eyes, but I blink them back with a vengeance. I refuse to cry. Not here. Not for Williams Whyte.

"Enough, Williams," a third voice drops into the conversation.

The air in the locker room shifts. Instantly. The casual locker-room banter dies down, replaced by a dense, heavy silence.

Simone Liverpool.

I don't look up, but I can feel him. Even without turning my head, I know his height, the broad expanse of his shoulders, the effortless, casual wealth that radiates from him like heat off pavement. Simone is the kind of guy who doesn't just enter a room; he commands it. Billionaire heir, star track athlete, and the owner of a face that belongs on a billboard in Times Square.

He’s also the guy I spent a semester writing analytical essays for while he sat across from me in the dim corner of the library, watching me with those unreadable, intense hazel eyes.

"You said something, Williams?" Simone’s voice is low. Dangerously low. It doesn't have the playful edge he usually uses with his teammates. It has a cold, razor-sharp edge that makes even Williams shift uncomfortably.

"I was just saying, man," Williams stammers slightly, clearing his throat. "Rough break with the photography project. Sucks you got saddled with—"

"Saddled?" Simone interrupts, his voice dropping another octave. The metal of the locker echoes as Simone steps closer. "Watch your mouth, Williams. Chrysler works harder in one afternoon than you do in a whole season. If you ever speak about my partner like that again, I won't just kick you off the line—I'll make sure you never step foot on a track in this state again."

A stunned silence falls over the room. Even Williams doesn't have a comeback for that. I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. Did Simone just... defend me?

No. Don't be an idiot, Chrysler. He’s defending his pride. He’s a Liverpool; having his partner openly mocked reflects poorly on his elite status. That’s all it is. Damage control for a billionaire ego.

"Whatever, man. You're the one driving," Williams mutters, grabbing his gym bag and stomping out of the locker room, the heavy door swinging shut behind him with a loud bang.

The room is quiet again, save for the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.

I take a slow, shaky breath, pull the hood of my sweatshirt a little lower over my forehead, and turn to grab my camera bag from the bench. As I step out from the aisle between the lockers, I nearly walk right into a solid, towering wall of muscle.

Simone.

He’s standing right there, blocking my path. Up close, the sheer physical presence of him is overwhelming. He’s wearing a crisp white athletic tee that clings to his chest, his dark hair slightly damp from a post-workout shower, and his jaw clenched so tightly a muscle twitches near his mouth.

His hazel eyes lock onto mine. There is a storm raging behind them—frustration, anger, and something else entirely that I am entirely too tired and too broken to try and decipher.

"Chrysler," he says, his voice softening just a fraction, though the intensity doesn't leave his gaze.

"Don't," I snap, my voice small, defensive, and laced with all the bitterness I’ve been swallowing for months. I grip the strap of my camera bag so hard my knuckles turn white. "Don't look at me like that, Liverpool. I know you didn't want this project any more than I did. You got stuck with the fat girl who used to write your papers. Feel free to put me in the trunk whenever you get tired of looking at me."

The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them—a preemptive strike. If I attack first, maybe it won't hurt as much when he inevitably agrees with them.

Simone flinches. Literally flinches. The raw hostility in his eyes vanishes, replaced by a sudden, sharp flash of pain that catches me completely off guard.

"Is that really what you think of me?" he asks, his voice dropping to a rough, gravelly whisper.

"It doesn't matter what I think of you," I say, trying to step past him. My shoulder brushes his arm, and a jolt of static electricity—or something far more terrifying—shoots straight through my clothes, making my skin prickle. "We have a cross-country drive to do. We take the pictures, we hand in the project, and we pretend we don't exist for the rest of the semester. Deal?"

I don't wait for his answer. I push past him, walking out of the locker room and out into the crisp, biting autumn air of the campus courtyard.

My heart is hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Every step I take feels heavy, weighed down by the ghost of my father, the cruel words of my mother echoing in my ears, and the lingering, suffocating presence of Simone Liverpool.

Ten minutes later, I am standing by the curb near the fine arts building, clutching my father's battered Nikon camera to my chest like a shield. A sleek, matte-black luxury sports car pulls up silently to the curb, idling with a low, expensive purfume-smooth hum. The passenger door clicks open automatically.

Through the tinted window, Simone’s eyes meet mine from the driver's seat. He isn't smiling. He looks tense, coiled like a spring, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles match mine in color.

I take a deep breath, swallow the lump of lead in my throat, and walk over to the car.

If this road trip is going to be hell, I’m going to make sure I survive it on my own terms.