A/N: Guys let's busk in some school energy

This was it. The perfect storm of chaos wearing a varsity jacket.

Madison stalked beside me down the hallway, still vibrating with laughter over Mrs. Henderson's psychological implosion. Students didn't just part for us; they fled, scattering like we were royalty, or maybe plague carriers. Hard to tell the difference these days. A sea of phone screens tracked our movement thanks to Connor, and whispers crackled in our wake like static.

"You know Lea's in this class, right?" Madison said, a dangerous, predatory smile playing on her lips.

"I'm aware."

"She's going to spontaneously combust seeing us walk in together."

"Also aware."

"This," Madison declared, "is going to be so much fun."

We reached Room 304. Through the door's window, I could see the class already half-full, a perfect little ecosystem of high school hierarchies. The smart kids clustered near the front, jockeying for intellectual favor. The social climbers carved out their territory in the middle, while the terminally bored formed a slumbering collective in the back.

And there, in the center, sat Lea Martinez. Of course. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, her notebook open, three different colored pens arranged on her desk like surgical tools ready for an operation.

But next to her was someone new.

A girl I'd never seen before. Slim to the point of boyish, with a small chest that disappeared under an oversized hoodie. She had a short, choppy bob that framed a face most people would look right past. Unnoticeable. Forgettable. The kind of person who exists in the margins of everyone's peripheral vision.

But I noticed her instantly.

Something in her stillness was… off. Too still. Too focused. Her eyes weren't just looking around the room; they were scanning it with an intensity that didn't match her harmless, mousy appearance.

And when those eyes landed on me through the glass—just for a fraction of a second—I swear I saw a flash of something manic.

Sharp.

Very sharp and screamed danger.

Then it was gone. Just another plain girl sitting next to Lea, taking notes before the bell.

Hmm.

I filed it away and pushed the door open.

Boom.

The effect was instantaneous.

Every female head in the room snapped toward me. Not gradually. Not casually. All at once, like puppets yanked by the same string. It was beautiful.

The Lust Presence didn't just radiate; it detonated. The moment I crossed the threshold, it went off like a silent bomb, the shockwave amplified by the enclosed space. I wasn't even trying. This was just ambient radiation.

Six girls. All of them not mine. All of them completely, utterly defenseless.

It was glorious to watch in different stages.

Pupils blew wide. Breaths hitched in unison. Spines straightened like they'd been zapped with electricity. One girl dropped her pencil with a clatter that sounded like a gunshot in the sudden silence. Another's phone slipped from nerveless fingers, clattering to the floor. The quiet brunette in the third row actually choked, her hand flying to her throat like she'd been force-fed a spoonful of lava.

Their faces were a painting of pure, unadulterated what the fuck. They didn't understand why their bodies had just betrayed them. Why their hearts were trying to beat their way out of their chests. Why heat was suddenly pooling low in their bellies. Why Peter Carter walking into physics class suddenly felt like the second coming.

They couldn't look away. Their eyes were glued to me, tracking my movement like I was the only solid object in a spinning room. Like I was the sun and they were a collection of dizzy, helpless planets locked into my orbit.

Madison gave my hand a final, triumphant squeeze before releasing it and sashaying to her usual seat—third row, window side. Claiming territory. Making a statement. The queen taking her throne.

I ambled toward my desk in the second row.

But Lea Martinez's reaction was the main event. The masterpiece.

She'd been mid-sentence, whispering something academic and intense to her new quiet friend. The moment I entered, the words just… died. Her mouth hung open for a full three seconds before her brain rebooted and ordered it shut.

Her face cycled through emotions at light speed: shock, confusion, a flicker of raw desire, and then immediate, vicious rage as she realized what was happening. The jealous facade crashed down like a guillotine.

She'd rejected me. Publicly. Brutally. Told me I was pathetic.

And now her body and thoughts were screaming that I was a god.

The cognitive whiplash was a thing of beauty. Her hands clenched into fists on her desk. Her breathing quickened—not just from arousal, but from pure, incandescent fury at her own arousal. Her eyes darted between me and Madison, watching Madison settle into her seat with an effortless, queenly confidence, and something ugly and twisted bloomed in Lea's expression.

Jealousy. Pure, uncut, and utterly vicious.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

Next to her, the mousy new girl? Nada.

While the Lust Presence had turned the rest of the female population of the room into a collection of slack-jawed zombies, she hadn't moved a muscle. Not a twitch. Her breathing was Zen-level calm. Her posture was as still as a photograph. But those eyes… they weren't just looking at me; they were cataloging me.

Studying my every move with a predator's focus that sent a primal shiver up my spine.

She wasn't affected, or she was a better actress than everyone in this room combined. It set off every alarm bell in my head, a quiet but persistent warning that I'd just stumbled across something I didn't understand.

I played my part. Sat at my desk. Pulled out my notebook. Just Normal Peter, here for his daily dose of rotational dynamics.

The boys, bless their simple hearts, had noticed nothing.

Two rows back, my boy Tommy was drowning in newfound friends, a pack of hyenas circling the fresh meat of his million-dollar status. He caught my eye and-mouthed, 'Help me.' A silent plea from the king of his own shitty new kingdom.

I just smirked and turned away.

He could lie in that bed.

And in the back corner, Jack Morrison looked… small. Diminished. His letterman jacket no longer looked like a crown but a costume he'd outgrown. The quarterback aura had evaporated the moment Sofia kissed me, leaving behind just a scared, lonely guy hunched over his desk in a private hell of public humiliation.

Connor Hayes, that human parasite, was by the window, phone angled carefully to look like he was texting but obviously livestreaming the Apocalypse. His viewer count was probably shooting through the roof. This was content gold.

Then came the main event.

Madison caught Lea staring at me with those jealous laser-beams and decided to pour gasoline on the fire.

She didn't just smile; she aimed a look that was pure weapon, and then she stuck her tongue out. A childish, perfect, checkmate of a gesture that screamed, He's mine, and you had your shot.

Lea's face turned the color of a fire truck. A growl. An actual, literal growl escaped her throat. It was a sound of pure, impotent frustration.

Madison laughed, a bright, genuine note of triumph.

"Ladies!" A voice of god-like, but deeply weary, authority cut through the bullshit. "Settle down!"

Mr. Patterson stood in the doorway, late forties, a man who'd been fighting a losing war against teenage hormones for fifteen years.

He entered carrying his worn leather satchel and a coffee mug that said "I'm here, you're welcome, that's enough social interaction for today."

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