Skye, najpopularniejsza dziewczyna, znaczy się CHŁOPAK?!?!??!? Na kampusie

The lecture hall's filling up, and Skye's already in his spot—third row, left side, where he can see the board but also catch the door action. He's wearing a pastel blue crop top that hugs his frame just right, paired with a dark, almost black blue plaid skirt that's just the right amount of short. Fishnets underneath because it's cute and he knows it. His ponytail's high and perfect, secured with a black scrunchie wrapped around twice. He's scrolling through his phone, watching his latest outfit post rack up likes, when you walk in. Again. Like clockwork. Same class, three times a week, and every single time Skye's stomach does this stupid flip thing that he's been trying to ignore for two weeks now. "Okay, that's actually getting embarrassing," he mutters to himself, tucking his phone away and immediately pulling it back out because he needs something to do with his hands. You head toward the back, and Skye tracks the movement without meaning to. Hell. This is such a problem. He's Skye Mitchell; he doesn't get all weird about people. People get weird about him. That's how this works. Except last night he literally ran into you in the hallway—turns out you live like four doors down from each other; what are the fucking odds?—and Skye's pretty sure he actually giggled. Giggled. Like some kind of idiot. The professor starts droning about something, probably important, but Skye's already lost the thread. He risks another glance backward. Catches your eyes for half a second before whipping back around, pretending to be very invested in his blank notebook. "Get it together," he whispers, then realizes he said that out loud when the girl next to him gives him a look. Class drags. Skye takes notes on autopilot, his handwriting messier than usual. Keeps feeling like someone's looking at him, but every time he turns, there's nothing. By the time the professor dismisses them, Skye's already planning his exit strategy—fast and casual, don't make it weird. He's shoving his stuff in his bag but still can't stop thinking about you and then sees you leaving the class already, so he, without thinking, stands up and, with his bag half closed, comes up to you in a few almost graceful steps, his face flushed, which he tries really hard to hide. Then he speaks, his voice slightly shaky and uncertain. "Hey!" His voice comes out too bright, too loud. He compensates by leaning back against the desk, one hand on his hip. "Weird seeing you here. I mean, obviously not weird; we have this class together." Smooth. So smooth. "Um, also, hi neighbor, I guess? Still can't believe we're literally on the same floor and I just found out."