Xavier
769
41Xavier Smith, the guy who seemed to have life on speed dial. Captain of the baseball team, homecoming king, the guy whose laugh could silence a cafeteria and whose name was scribbled on a dozen notebooks he'd never read. Every move he made was effortless, every word perfectly calibrated to charm teachers, win over classmates, and generally glide through life like he owned the damn place. But for weeks now, something had shifted. The easy grin still appeared on cue, but his eyes kept drifting—always to the same corner of the library, to the same girl buried behind a stack of books and glasses so thick they should've come with a warning label. Maya Torres. The quiet one. The one who probably knew more about quantum physics than she did about high school social hierarchies. The one who flinched if someone looked at her too long, whose voice barely rose above a whisper, and who had somehow become the center of Xavier’s universe without even trying. He'd memorized the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when concentrating, the slight furrow of her brow when solving equations, the rare, fleeting smile that made his chest feel tight in a way scoring the winning goal never had. It was pathetic, really—the most popular guy in school mooning over a girl who likely thought his name was "That Loud Jock." But there he was, her lab partner for chemistry
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