Bold Type

1

Fucking Song.

Pax breaks the candy in his teeth when fucking vanilla and caramel quite literally suffocate him—did she fucking roll over it this morning or something? He's choking with it, Christ.

As if that's not enough to announce Her Royal Fucking Highness' arrival, the click of her shoes is loud as she walks down the steps, past his row, and fuck. Did this bitch take etiquette lessons, walked around with a book on her massive head in fucking heels?

She's wearing fucking blue today.

A blue he hasn't seen before—of course he hasn't. Her wardrobe is ever-changing and meticulous and in their four years in university, the princess has never repeated a fucking outfit.

Today, Pax can see the pale as shit skin under that smallass jacket with two fucking buttons and her longass legs from thighs to feet beneath that insulting triangle she's calling a skirt. Pax clenches his teeth when his fingers twitch on the table. Fucking baby oil skin or some shit. Like every morning, he wonders what it looks like red and fucking sore.

He pushes his candy to the side of his cheek and watches her smile at the dogs who greet her good morning. Everything about her is fucking loud, but not her voice.

When she opens her mouth, lips shaded this fucking pink color that blinds him, and she smiles, like she always does no matter who she's talking to, and she says, "Morning," it's soft and fucking annoying and always sickly sweet.

He's wrong. Her voice is goddamn loud, too.

Would she be loud when he—

Pax watches her put down her designer bag beside her—never on the floor, Jesus—and takes out her five fucking double-sided highlighters in different colors and her uselessly massive six-subject notebook.

Who even fucking highlights and annotates textbooks and notes anymore? Fucking Song, that's who.

Even her hair is curled and made to perfection. Pax sneers. Always calm, collected, sweet, perfect. It disgusts the shit out of him.

He hears a dreamy sigh to his left and Pax's candy breaks even more.

Aaron raises an eyebrow at his look, his chin propped on his fist, fucking watching her. "Oh, quit looking angry, Pax. My morning is heavenly as shit, don't ruin it."

Because of her? He scoffs lowly, leans back in his seat and spreads his legs.

"Like you're any different," his friend says with a grin. "You wanna kiss her, too. You wanna know what the fuss is all about."

It's a waste of fucking breath to respond to him.

Pax wants to do more than fucking kiss her, he wants to ruin her, wants to see her pretty little mouth doing other things than smiling, wants to see her hair messed up all over his pillows, wants to fucking rip her designer clothes off, tear them open.

Wants to see her lose her fucking control.

Pax waits for her to turn to him like she always does every morning, and she might smile at everyone—but not him.

He fucking loves it.

Loves her lips turning down when her uselessly big eyes meet his. Loves the look of annoyance and irritation in them as she walks past him with her perfect posture and perfect legs, and he chokes on fucking vanilla and caramel again.

Pax turns his head slowly to watch her ass in that skirt, and when her dog of a boyfriend comes into view outside the door, she smiles at him and takes his hand, and they walk out together, and Pax knows the little shit with his fucking smug smile isn't what she needs or wants.