Lovestuck

Chapter 8

Riya had a plan.

A good plan. A foolproof plan.

Step one: Arrive early (before Kian could find her).

Step two: Take the long way around school, avoiding all known student hotspots.

Step three: If all else fails, deploy emergency earbuds and make a break for first period (her teachers would be only too happy to chase out a student who didn’t belong).

It should have worked.

It would have worked.

If she hadn’t made one fatal mistake: She went to her locker.

She realized it the moment she turned the corner and saw him: Kian Kho, leaning against her locker like he belonged there.

Riya stopped short. A sharp prickle of irritation cut through her exhaustion.

She should have seen this coming. Kian had been, after all, practically hexed into becoming a persistent lovesick puppy.

The logical response was to turn around, walk the other way.

Except her AP Calculus textbook was in there.

Grinding her teeth, Riya approached. Kian’s face lit up the moment he saw her.

“Morning, Riya!” he beamed. “Damn, what did I do to deserve seeing you first thing?”

His enthusiasm swept in like a storm, his voice was loud, too obvious, drawing attention. Even standing still, he was too

much: dyed-blond hair in a brambled mess, an ill-fitting black Tame Impala sweatshirt. And a guitar case, slung over his shoulder like a prop in a typical teen movie.

“Hello,” she said flatly, arms crossed. “You’re in my way.”

“Oh! My bad,” said Kian, stepping aside from her locker. “Actually, I was hoping we could talk some more. Which—hey, we’re

doing that right now, so that’s—uh—really great.” He wiped his hands down the front of his jeans, nervous energy practically

radiating off him. “Really great. Um, have you thought about what I said? Yesterday?”

“I have. And keep your voice down.” One public disaster per week was enough.

“Wow, okay. Is this—is this really happening? Are we actually going to start dat—”

“Absolutely not.” She’d learned from being VP that there was no point in softening rejections.

Something in Kian’s face cracked. His breath caught, like she’d struck something raw.

“O-oh. Okay. Yeah. I get it. I mean, I guess I did just drop all this on you out of the blue,” he reasoned, nodding to himself. “Who would want to go steady without, you know, getting to know each other first?”

“I’m glad you understand,” she said, opening her locker.

For a moment, it almost seemed like he did.

But then Kian leaned closer, hovering at her shoulder—or by it, since he was almost two inches shorter than she was.

Riya felt her muscles grow tense. Too close.

“Well, what if we went on a couple of dates first?” he asked. “You could get to know me more, and then we’ll see where that

takes us.”

Riya stared.

“Or—is it that you don’t feel safe around me yet?” he asked. “Because that’s fair. I get it. It’s not like you know me that

well, and, like—shit’s wild out there. I read this UN report on gender-based violence, and it’s bad. My dad always says if

a girl says yes to a date, it’s a big deal. Means she trusts you enough to be alone with you, and you don’t take that for

granted.”

He exhaled, fingers twisting around the strap of his guitar case. “But, Riya, I really like you,” he said, quieter now. “I mean it. And if you don’t believe me, I’ll prove it. Just, tell me how. I’ll do anything.

Shoulder rubs. Homework. Destroy your enemies. Anything.”

Riya had expected desperation. Clinginess. Maybe even frustration. But this overwhelming, unshakable earnestness was throwing

her off balance.

You’re the one who did this to him, she reminded herself, gripping the edge of her locker door.

Riya pinched at the bridge of her nose, forcing her mind back into focus.

“That’s not necessary,” she said. “I understand you think you feel that way, but—”

“I do feel that way,” Kian interrupted, gaze unwavering. “I really, really do.”

“The thing is,” she continued, jaw tight, “there’s nothing to prove. It’s just—I think it’s best that we keep our distance for now. Just

until things settle. Space gives people . . . perspective, right?”

“Huh. Doesn’t that usually apply to people who already know each other?”

She forced a nod. “Sometimes. But your confession was . . . sudden. And I need time to process. To make sure neither of us

is—ah—confused about our feelings.”

Kian grinned. “I’m not confused. I’ve never been this sure about anything.”

Riya stiffened.

She had spent years organizing schedules, negotiating disputes, and steering people toward logical solutions. She knew how

to navigate conflict. How to de-escalate. How to redirect.

But Kian wasn’t following the rules, or even reality.

Which only made her more certain they needed space—if only he’d cooperate.

“The thing is,” she said, “I have a lot on my plate right now, and you’re a distraction I don’t need.”

Kian’s brow furrowed. “A distraction?”

“Yes. I’m very busy. And no, you can’t help,” she added, before he could offer. “I’m sure you have plenty going on, too. Plus,

I don’t know you. And if I’m being honest, I don’t really like you. Okay? I haven’t forgiven you for what you did to Mel,

and I’m not just going to forget that just because you think you have a crush on me.”

That landed.

For the first time, the light in Kian’s eyes wavered. His fingers curled around the strap of his guitar case.

“That’s not—that wasn’t my intention . . .” he murmured.

Riya set her jaw, tampering down the unwelcome prickle of guilt, and turned back to her locker. Conversation over.

But Kian lingered.

“You say you don’t like me,” he mused, almost to himself, “but you’re still being careful with my feelings. You could have

been a lot meaner. Which means you don’t hate me, right?”

Riya stilled.

No. She wasn’t being careful with his feelings. She was being clear. Efficient. And she didn’t know him enough to hate him. That was all.

Kian managed a small, sad smile. “Anyway, if you really want me to keep my distance, I’ll respect that.”

“. . . Really? Just like that?”

“Of course. If that’s what you want.” He swallowed, each word scraped thin. “I won’t bother you. But . . . it’ll be hard, you know? Pretending I don’t feel this way.”

Riya blinked. No grand declaration, no desperate plea?

“Good.” She cleared her throat. “Well . . . it was fine talking to you.”

For a beat, something dark clouded Kian’s face. Then it was gone.

Maybe he was just disappointed. Maybe it was his pride.

Either way, a knot pulled tight in her gut for no good reason. She’d done what needed doing.

And if all went the way it should, that would be the end of it.

True to his word, Kian kept his distance—technically.

But all week Riya still caught glimpses of him in the hallways, lingering around corners, staring at her with his big dark

eyes like she was the most fascinating thing in the universe.

It was unnerving.

The first time, she’d been pinning the Fall Talent Show sign-up sheet to a corkboard, aligning it so the edges ran perfectly

parallel.

“It’s still a little crooked,” a voice murmured behind her.

She exhaled through her nose, ready to ignore it—then stepped back.

Annoyingly, the voice was right: The sign-up sheet was off by a hair. She adjusted the sign-up sheet, pressing the pushpins in harder than necessary.

When she turned around, Kian was already speed-walking away, nearly colliding with a trash can before veering around the corner.

The next time, she’d dropped her mechanical pencil in the crowded hallway—a minor inconvenience, but an annoying one. She

didn’t use just any pencil; she used a very particular brand, with a comfortable grip and precise, smooth lead weight.

She sighed, bracing herself to navigate the chaos in search of it.

Except . . . she didn’t have to. Because somehow, seconds later, she found it tucked back into her pocket.

Then there was the iced tea.

She’d taken the last sip before leaving her desk in the library, folding the empty carton neatly before setting it aside.

She never left messes, even temporarily, but there hadn’t been a trash can nearby—and she was in a rush to the bathroom.

When she returned, the empty carton was gone. And in its place sat a fresh one, still cold to the touch. Not just the same

brand—her usual lemon flavor. Not just placed nearby—positioned exactly where she would reach for it, mere inches from her AP Calc textbook.

She stared at it for a long moment, like it might come alive and bite her.

This wasn’t a casual, mindless infatuation. In the past few days, Kian had been studying her. As if the spell were sharpening his focus, making him more attuned to her.

And apparently, she wasn’t the only one who had noticed.

“People are taaalking,” Quin sang in the auditorium control booth, tossing a tennis ball into the air and catching it without looking.

Quin was president of Student Council. But perhaps it was more accurate to say that Quin was more like a jester who’d accidentally

become king: out of their depth and ridiculous and, frankly, an insult to Student Councils everywhere. They clearly had no

interest in doing their basic duties, like attending the monthly school faculty meeting—Riya had to cover this month—or even

presiding over their biweekly council meetings.

Today, she’d wasted almost an hour hunting Quin down, only to find them napping on a couch in the control booth.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Riya replied, willing her fingers to relax around her pen.

“Oh, I think you do.” Quin tossed the ball again, their grin widening. “Riya and Kian, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I—”

Riya sighed. “Anyway,” she went on, “you were supposed to review the agenda for Tuesday’s meeting. Flora wants to print copies.” Flora, their

shy sophomore secretary, had practically melted under Riya’s intense stare in their last meeting. “Admin also wants us to

nail down our prom theme, ideally in the next couple weeks.”

“Hmm, the agenda? I approve.”

“You haven’t read it.”

“I trust you.”

“I’d rather you read the agenda.”

Quin gave Riya a feline smile, their features as striking as ever with their pale blond hair and storm-gray eyes.

“Ah, Riya, my trusty number two. How I admire your work ethic.” They stretched out their arms and yawned. “But there’s no

rush. And, may I remind you, the deadline to choose a prom theme isn’t until December. We have plenty of time.”

Riya’s glasses slid down her nose. She shoved them back into place.

“No, we don’t,” she said flatly. “We still need to draft a budget; start fundraising; print tickets and promotional materials; hire a DJ,

photographer, and caterer; secure a venue and decorations—”

“Okay, okay, I get it—”

“All by December.”

“Wow.” Quin raised a brow. “All right, all right. I get that you operate on a . . . unique level, but you gotta learn to let

loose instead of running your life like a Fortune 500 company.”

They propped themselves up on their elbows, watching her. “Seriously, though. You ever think about taking a break?”

Riya’s fingers twitched around her pen. “I don’t need a break.”

“No? Because you’ve got that look again.”

“What look?”

“The one that says, I’m Riya Khan, and I have fourteen different spreadsheets in my brain, and I will not rest until all of them are in perfect

harmony.” Quin grinned, tossing their tennis ball in the air. “You’re a senior, for God’s sake. Chill out a little. Make some memories.”

“I—” Riya’s cheeks flushed. “I have memories. Good memories.”

Quin tilted their head, considering. “Mm, I guess that’s true. Since, you know, you’ve got Kian Kho wrapped around your finger now.”

Riya stiffened. “Again, no idea what you’re talking about.”

Quin tossed the ball again, catching it easily. “Ah, so we’re playing the denial game? That’s fine. Because I know what I

saw.”

Riya’s pulse flickered—quick, irritated. “And what do you think you saw?”

Quin smirked. “I saw Kian Kho trailing you around like a baby duck imprinted on his maman.” They twirled the ball between their fingers. “And I saw you guys at the library. He looked positively smitten, leaving

you a drink. Iced tea, was it?”

If Quin was already joking about it . . . how long until everyone else started wondering, too? And what if they looked too

closely—not at Kian, but at her?

Riya kept her expression neutral. “You spend a concerning amount of time monitoring my life.”

“I contain multitudes. And for the record, I have my own life, too. I was very busy engaging in my daily meditation before you rudely barged in.”

“Napping is not meditation.”

Quin tossed the ball again. “Clearly, you’re no meditator.”

This time, Riya snatched the ball mid-arc. “How can you even afford to take naps right now? Don’t you have college apps?”

Quin shrugged, grinning. “I finished them ages ago. By the look on your face, you haven’t finished yours, have you? Tsk tsk. That’s why you’re all . . .” They waved a hand vaguely in her direction. “This.”

Riya’s eyebrow twitched.

But maybe they were right: She was being absurd, wasn’t she? Harping on other people when she could barely focus on anything herself.

She looked away and flipped open her notebook, eyes darting over the pages—half-finished checklists, budget breakdowns, meeting

minutes.

None of them helped her now.

Quin’s smile faded, and they sat up, concerned.

“Oh, shit. Did I go too far?”

Riya couldn’t answer that.

Instead, she snapped her notebook shut.

“Just . . . please be there on Tuesday,” she said, her throat tight. “I already wrote the initial proposal for potential prom themes, so all I need is your approval on the agenda.”

She headed for the door.

“Wait, Riya—”

She closed it behind her.