Betty
Marcus sat across from me at our dining room table, flipping through slides with a pencil in his mouth and absolutely no understanding of personal space. His knee kept brushing mine under the table, subtle but distracting, and every time I looked up, he looked better. Fresh white tee. Chain just barely visible. Slight smirk like he knew I was watching. Infuriating. Beautiful. Dangerous.
“Can you, like… not?” I muttered.
He blinked. “Not what?”
“Exist like that. You’re making this hard.”
He leaned forward. “You mean the project?”
“No. I mean breathing.”
He laughed—and God help me, that laugh was starting to undo me.
We were polishing our cardiovascular system slides. The goal? Make Coach think Marcus hadn’t completely thrown away his academic future. My goal? Not lose my mind every time he ran his fingers through his hair like some dumb shampoo commercial.
I pointed to the slide. “This one. Coronary arteries. I added the part about oxygen supply during peak stress. It ties to post-exercise fatigue.”
He didn’t respond.
I looked up.
His eyes weren’t on the slide.
They were on me.
“Marcus.”
He blinked like I’d just yanked him out of a trance. “Yeah?”
“You didn’t hear a word I said.”
“Not one,” he admitted.
I rolled my eyes. “You are the worst.”
“You’re wearing those little plaid shorts,” he said casually. “And you’re mad I’m distracted?”
“They’re not little.”
“They’re little to me.”
“Focus,” I hissed. “We are not doing this again.”
“Doing what?” he asked, eyes darkening slightly.
I pretended to read the script. I did not trust myself to answer that.
Right then, the front door opened. My dad stepped in, still in his suit from court, eyes immediately landing on Marcus. He paused, straightened, and smiled like a man who didn’t quite know how to handle a six-foot teen delinquent in his house.
“Evening,” Dad said.
Marcus stood, awkwardly. “Sir. Uh—hello.”
“You must be Marcus Mitchell,” Dad said, voice cool but not unfriendly. “The one who got suspended.”
“Yeah,” Marcus muttered. “That’s me.”
“And now you’re working on a project with my daughter?”
“Yes, sir. Cardiovascular system. Fully supervised. Zero corruption of minors.”
Dad raised a brow, then turned to me. “He’s charming. You know that’s dangerous, right?”
I rolled my eyes. “He’s on probation.”
Dad gave Marcus one last once-over before heading into the kitchen. “Just don’t kiss in my house unless you’re ready to elope.”
Marcus choked on air. I kicked him under the table.
Once my dad was out of earshot, Marcus exhaled. “I like him.”
“You should. He’s got a baseball bat in the garage with your name on it.”
We laughed. For a second, it felt normal.
Then the front door creaked again.
Stacey.
Her heels clicked against the hallway floor, and she walked in like she owned gravity. Lip gloss perfect. Hair glossy. And then she saw us.
Her gaze flicked from Marcus’s chair to my laptop. To our knees barely apart. To my shorts. To his face.
And she froze.
No sneer. No insult.
Just… shock.
“Wow,” she said, voice sharp. “Didn’t realize the trash was doing charity work now.”
Marcus didn’t even blink. “Nice to see you too, Stacey.”
“I bet,” she muttered, tossing her bag down and storming upstairs.
Marcus turned to me. “Is she always like that?”
“No,” I said. “Sometimes she’s worse.”
We finished the last three slides in quiet focus—minus the constant tension threatening to set the entire table on fire. When I leaned over to fix the font size, his hand grazed my thigh. Not by accident.
When I stood to print something, he caught my wrist. Pulled me gently into his lap.
“Marcus,” I whispered.
“I’m not doing anything,” he murmured. “Yet.”
I didn’t move. His hand was on my waist now, warm and steady. My breath caught.
“You kissed me last time,” he said.
“And stopped it,” I reminded him. “We’re taking this slow.”
He nodded. “You’re still allowed to sit here.”
My heart was hammering.
I let myself stay.
His fingers brushed my back. My hands gripped the table. We didn’t kiss—but it was somehow worse. Better. More.
Then my laptop pinged.
An email.
Subject line: “Social Impact Nomination – Stanford University”
I reached for it. Read the first line.
And nearly fell off his lap.
“Marcus,” I whispered.
He leaned over my shoulder. “What?”
I turned the screen toward him.
“We recently came across your video and were deeply inspired by your advocacy, resilience, and impact. We are inviting you to apply for our Social Impact Scholarship. If accepted, this will include full tuition, housing, and early admission review.”
I blinked.
Full scholarship.
Stanford.
Marcus let out a low whistle. “Holy shit, Betty.”
My hands were shaking.
And then—
Another ping.
This time from my vlog inbox.
A DM.
From the editor of a national magazine.
“Hi Betty—We’d love to feature you as one of our 30 Under 18 Trailblazers. Please let us know if you’re available to talk this week.”
Marcus read it too. “You’re going nuclear.”
I shook my head. “No. I’m becoming everything they said I couldn’t be.”
He grinned. “And here I was thinking I was the story tonight.”
I leaned in, heart racing. “You still are.”
Then I kissed him—quick. Heat sparking. Breath stolen.
But I pulled back before it went too far.
He looked dazed. “Why do you keep doing that?”
“Because this time,” I whispered, brushing my thumb across his cheek, “I get to be in control.”
And then I stood.
“Now get your ass up,” I said. “We’re printing this thing and getting that suspension lifted.”
He followed, still stunned, as I led him toward the printer with a shake of my hips that wasn’t entirely accidental.
I was done hiding.
Done playing the loser.
And if Riverside Prep thought this was the end of my story?
They hadn’t seen anything yet.