Chapter Four

Marcus’s POV

Okay, look. If you ever catch me acting like a simp, please just throw me into the nearest large body of water. Because I, Marcus Halverin, the guy who has literally never had to try for anything in his life, am currently losing my actual mind over a girl who thinks I’m the human equivalent of a toe stub.

And the worst part? It’s Kelsey. The Grease Monkey. The girl who basically ruined my life and my laundry bill in the same week.

I was sitting in the back of the campus library, tucked away in one of those dusty private study rooms. My leg was propped up, my arm was in a sling, and I felt like a broken action figure. I was prepared to be bored to death. I figured she’d show up in her oversized "Engineering" hoodie and those combat boots, looking like she was ready to build a tank.

Then she walked in.

My brain literally lagged. Like, 404 Error: Marcus.exe has stopped working.

She wasn’t wearing the hoodie. She had on these baggy boyfriend jeans that sat perfectly on her hips and a white, clingy basic top that... well, let’s just say it was doing a lot for her. Her hair was in this messy bun that looked like she’d spent two seconds on it, but somehow it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

Am I mad? I thought, my heart doing a weird flip-flop. It’s Kelsey. Ew. That annoying girl. The one who made you wear a pink skirt, remember?

But then she sat down across from me, and the smell of vanilla and something like motor oil hit me. It shouldn't have been attractive, but it was.

"Open your book, Marcus," she snapped, not even looking at me. "We’re starting with internal forces in beams. And don't look at me like that. I’m only here so my mom doesn't get fired."

I didn't even hear the part about the beams. All I could focus on were her lips. She had this perfect lip combo done—a brown liner with a glossy finish that made them look... soft. And her lashes? She’d done this cat-eye design that made her eyes look sharp enough to cut glass.

"Marcus?" she barked, tapping her pen on the table. "Are you listening or did the mop water finally seep into your brain?"

"Yeah," I croaked, my voice sounding like I’d swallowed sandpaper. "Beams. Internal stuff. Got it."

I didn't get it. I didn't get any of it. For two hours, she talked about vectors and moments, and all I did was watch the way her lips moved when she got frustrated with my "selective hearing." I was down bad. I was officially in the trenches.

That night, I was back at the mansion, lying in my bed and staring at the ceiling. I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those cat-eye lashes.

I grabbed my phone. I needed to see her. Not the "I’m-going-to-fail-you" Kelsey, but the real her.

I typed "Kelsey Vale" into the I*******m search bar.

No results.

"Kelsey Engineering."

Nothing.

"Kelsey Mop Girl."

Zero.

"Where are you, Kelsey?" I muttered, getting genuinely frustrated. "Are you a ghost or something? Who doesn't have an I*******m in 2026?”

I started going through the followers of every person I knew in the freshman class. Finally, I hit gold. One of her friends, some girl from her lab, had posted a photo of a coffee cup with the caption "Study dates with the best." She had tagged a private account.

Username: @valex_k.

Vale. Her surname. Of course she’d use her surname. It was so... her.

I clicked on the profile. Private.

There was no way in hell I was requesting her from my main account. She’d probably block me and then report me for harassment. So, I did what any rational, totally-not-obsessed guy would do.

I made a burner account.

I used a random picture of a mountain as the profile pic. Name: Leon_99. I hit "Request."

Five minutes later, my phone buzzed. valex_k has accepted your follow request.

I felt like I’d just won the Super Bowl. I dove into her highlights. There weren't many—mostly pictures of complicated-looking blueprints, her cat, and a few "outfit of the day" mirrorselfies that made my breath hitch. She was so natural. No filters, no "pick-me" energy. Just her.

I didn't sleep that night. I stayed up scrolling through her feed, taking in everything. The way she smiled when she wasn't yelling at me... it completely melted my heart.

Two days later, I was back in the sunroom at home. My injury was being a total jerk. My arm was cramping, my leg was throbbing, and I was trying to eat a bowl of pasta her mom had left for me.

But with one arm in a sling and my leg locked straight, I couldn't get the fork to my mouth properly. I was basically stabbing myself in the chin. I felt like a complete loser.

The door opened. I expected my mom.

It was Kelsey.

She was holding a small bag—probably more tools for her mom. She stopped when she saw me struggling. I looked like a mess, sweating from the effort of trying to eat a single noodle.

"Struggling there, Superstar?" she asked, her voice losing some of its usual bite.

"I’m fine," I grunted, trying again and dropping a piece of penne onto my robe. "Go away."

She didn't go away. She walked over, took the bowl from my hand, and sat on the edge of the ottoman.

"Give it here," she said. "Let me feed you so you don't die of hunger on my watch. My mom would never forgive me if I let the 'Golden Boy' starve."

I wanted to say no. I wanted to be the alpha male. But then she held out the fork, and I just... opened my mouth.

She fed me. Slowly. Carefully. She even wiped a bit of sauce off my lip with a napkin, her fingers grazing my skin for a split second.

I kept staring at her, thinking of a million ways to tell her how I felt. Hey, I made a fake I*******m to look at your cat. No, that’s creepy. Hey, I think your lip combo is fire. No, she’d laugh in my face.

I knew she hated me. I knew she thought I was just another arrogant jock who got everything handed to him. She didn't drool over me like the girls in the bleachers. She didn't care about my stats.

And honestly? That made me want her even more.

"You're staring again, Halverin," she said, looking up from the pasta. "Is there something on my face?"

"No," I whispered. "Just... thanks. For the food."

She shrugged, standing up. "Whatever. Just don't get used to it. Library tomorrow at four. Don't be late."

She walked out of the room, and for the first time in my life, I wasn't thinking about football. I wasn't thinking about my injury.

I was thinking about how to make Kelsey Vale look at me the way she looked at her blueprints.

I wasn't backing down. I was the captain of the team, after all. And I was going to win this game, even if I had to play the long game.