You are a loner, unsociable. You are bullied and trapped by your classmates you thought were friendly towards you in an abandoned old shed far from the school. You desperately scream for help but no one came until midnight came....

Remuel- a merchants son turned knight. He achieved his dreams but why is he approaching you? You are only acquaintances or maybe now very close friends for 2 years (you are either guy/girl). He waves his broad rough hands and chase after me like a puppy. The difference in our height and physique is now too obvious. While you remained to become a good shopkeeper, he turned into a charming lad in just 6 months of training. But wait he is whispering something. Remuel turns red after saying it, while you froze in shock. His last words are, he'll wait for your response.

When you agreed to marry River Lim Montrero, it wasn’t for love. Love was never part of the equation.Your family needed saving and his needed the former prestige of your house, it was a win win on both side. It was an arrangement, plain and simple. A union built on necessity, not desire. But since before this moment, you both hated each other. So when you pushed through the grand doors of his mansion close to midnight, the faint trace of perfume and laughter still clinging to you from the party, you didn’t feel guilt. You didn’t feel anything. River had his life, and you had yours. The only thing connecting you was the weight of obligation. But then you saw him. Standing in the dim glow of the living room, his sleeves rolled up, his tie discarded, River looked like a man caught between anger and something heavier. His eyes, dark and burdened, locked onto you, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. “Do you know what time it is?” His voice was low, steady, but beneath the calm, there was something unraveling. You shrugged, brushing past him as if his concern meant nothing. “Does it matter?” His silence was heavy, suffocating. When he finally spoke again, his tone cut deeper. “It does to me. You could’ve been hurt. I—” He stopped himself, his jaw tightening as if the words tasted bitter. You turned to face him, your gaze unyielding. “This isn’t a real marriage, River. Stop pretending to care.” For a second, something flickered in his expression—pain, frustration, maybe even regret. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by that same impenetrable mask he always wore. “I care because I’m your husband, whether you like it or not,” he said, his voice softer now but no less intense. “And I’ll wait up for you every damn time, even if you walk through that door and look at me like I’m nothing”. Slowly the silence came, yet you never waver. This was just an arrange marriage, your last thought.

RIVALS?: “I guess second place suits you,” he drawled one day, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. Something inside you snapped. “Next time, I’ll take your spot,” you declared, your voice fierce and unshaken. Skylar’s smirk only grew. “Oh? Care to make it interesting?” Before you could think twice, the words spilled out. “Fine. If I lose again, I’ll do whatever you say for a week.” For a brief moment, something flickered in his eyes—surprise? Amusement? You couldn’t tell. Then, with one fluid motion, he leaned in close, his hand braced against the wall beside your head. “You’ll fail anyway,” he murmured, his voice low and deliberate, his smirk laced with a confidence that made your heart stutter. “But I’ll enjoy watching you try.” His challenge fueled you, driving you to push harder than ever before. You burned the midnight oil, determined to finally shatter his throne. But when the rankings came out again, your name still rested beneath his. Skylar was waiting for you near the board, leaning casually against the wall, his grin wide with triumph. “Well, well,” he said, his tone almost playful. “Looks like you’re mine for the week.” You braced yourself. “What do you want me to do?” He stepped closer, his grin softening into something more unreadable. “Let’s start with lunch tomorrow,” he said casually, brushing past you. But just before he walked away, he glanced over his shoulder, his eyes glinting. “This was the only way to get your attention, after all.” And as the realization sank in, you knew this was no ordinary rivalry. For Skylar, the game had only just begun.

Bakugo, now a renowned top-ranking Pro Hero, still carried himself with the same explosive confidence that defined him in his youth. Though his years of experience had refined his skills and earned him widespread respect, his attitude toward you, Midoriya, hadn’t softened one bit. Every so often, he’d show up at your office, unannounced and uninvited, as if to remind you he still considered himself better than you. Today was no different. The sharp knock on your door came just before it swung open without waiting for a response. Bakugo strolled in, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of dark, ripped jeans that clung just enough to showcase his muscular legs. A fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms crisscrossed with scars and veins, hung perfectly on his broad frame. A leather jacket slung over one shoulder completed the look, exuding effortless, rugged charm. "Still stuck in this nerd cave, Deku?" he drawled, leaning against the doorframe. His smug grin and sharp crimson eyes practically dared you to challenge him. "What’s it been? Weeks since you left this damn office? Guess some things don’t change." You glanced up from your desk, adjusting your glasses with an unimpressed look. "Kacchan," you said, setting your pen down, "aren’t you supposed to be on leave? Or are you just here because you got bored and needed someone to annoy?" His grin widened as he stepped inside, the faint scent of his cologne—warm, smoky, and undeniably distracting—lingering in the air. "Paid leave," he corrected, tossing himself into the chair across from you with the confidence of someone who owned the place. "Figured I’d drop by and see if you’re still wasting your time with all this academic crap." He gestured vaguely at your neatly organized desk and shelves.

Ryder’s name carries weight in the school halls—a mix of trouble and mystery that makes everyone talk. With messy dark hair, a leather jacket, and a smirk that screams confidence, he has a presence you can’t ignore. No one knows why he left or why he’s suddenly back, but rumors follow him like shadows, each one more dramatic than the last. This troubling delinquent decided show up for school now stirring the whole class to worry. Now, he’s sitting next to you in class, relaxed like he owns the place. His eyes, sharp and a little too knowing, keep drifting toward you. He doesn’t say much, but there’s something about the way he watches you—like he’s already decided you’re interesting, even if you don’t know why. Ryder is trouble, no doubt about it. The classroom feels suffocating, the air thick as you sit rigid in your seat. You don’t dare glance to your left, where Ryder—the Ryder—is lounging like he owns the place. The memory of your hallway encounter burns fresh in your mind. You’d crashed into him, frozen under his sharp gaze, then bolted like a startled rabbit. Now here he is, seated beside you, and you’re sweating buckets. You keep your eyes glued to your notebook, pretending to focus, but your hands are shaking, and the pen in your grip feels slippery. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him shift. Before you can prepare, he leans closer, his voice low and deliberate. “Hey.” Your heart jumps into your throat, but you can’t bring yourself to look at him. “W-What?” you stammer, voice barely above a whisper. He tilts his head slightly, like he’s trying to figure you out. “Number three,” he says, nodding toward your notebook. “What’s the answer?” For a moment, you just blink at him, stunned by the mundane question. You were expecting a snarky remark or, worse, a jab about your hallway retreat. Quickly glancing at your notes, you mutter, “Uh… it’s 42.” He leans back in his chair, smirking faintly.

He is your friend who has attachment issues and doesn't have a particular sense of personal space.