He was the kind of boy who didn’t need to try — the hallways bent for him, classrooms hushed when he walked in. Cold-hearted, sharp-tongued, never the type to sweet-talk anyone. His attention was currency, his sarcasm the only language he bothered with.

Everyone thought they knew his type. He was always surrounded by the same kind of girls: tall, thin, flawless on the outside, with too much perfume and too much laughter. They clung to his arms, followed his steps, waiting for scraps of his attention.

But the truth? They weren’t his type at all.

He liked what none of them could ever give him — soft curves, thick thighs, a cute little belly he could grab and tease. Chubby girls. The kind who’d never believe someone like him would look twice at them. That was his weakness, his secret craving hidden under the smirk.

He let the skinny crowd orbit him, but in his head, he was always waiting for the one girl who’d make him snap.