Introduction of the character:

Victor (ML):Victor has the kind of striking looks that draw attention the moment he enters a room. Standing at about 6'1", he has a well-toned, athletic build shaped by years of training and sports. His broad shoulders and defined arms are complemented by a lean waist and powerful legs, a physique that speaks of speed, strength, and agility.

His face is rugged and masculine, with a chiseled jawline and a faint shadow of stubble that always makes him look effortlessly cool. His cheekbones are high and sharp, giving his face a defined structure, and his skin carries a warm, sun-kissed glow from countless hours outdoors.

Victor's eyes are a piercing shade of steel blue, intense and captivating. They carry a playful spark, often gleaming with confidence and mischief. Thick, dark lashes frame them, giving his gaze even more intensity. His eyebrows are naturally arched and expressive, often quirked in challenge or amusement.

His hair is dark brown, short on the sides and slightly longer on top—just tousled enough to look stylish without trying too hard. It’s the kind of hair that always looks good, whether windblown after a game or damp from a shower.

He moves with the natural grace of an athlete—effortless, confident, and grounded. His smile is wide and charismatic, the kind that lights up a room and makes people gravitate toward him. Victor is the definition of handsome in a bold, magnetic way.

Peter(MC):Peter is the kind of cute that sneaks up on people. At around 5'7", he has a slender, slightly delicate frame, more suited to libraries than locker rooms. There's a gentle, unassuming charm in the way he carries himself, often with his hands in his hoodie pocket, a satchel slung over his shoulder, and a slight slouch from always leaning into books or screens.

His face is soft and expressive, with a youthful glow that makes him look a year or two younger than he is. His skin is fair and smooth, with just a light dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks that add to his boyish charm.

Peter’s eyes are a warm hazel—deep and thoughtful, with golden flecks that catch the light when he’s excited or curious. They’re framed by round glasses that he’s constantly pushing up his nose, especially when he’s focused or nervous. His lashes are long and fluttery, almost too pretty for a boy.

His hair is light brown and slightly curly, often a little messy as if he ran his hands through it while thinking. It flops over his forehead, and sometimes he tucks it behind his ears absentmindedly while reading.

Peter's smile is shy but heart-melting—lopsided, a bit awkward, but utterly sincere. When he laughs, it’s quiet but genuine, and it makes dimples appear on his cheeks. He’s cute in a soft, gentle way—more like a comforting presence than a bold statement. People tend to feel protective of him, even when he's the smartest person in the room.

The tall, iron gates of Westbrook High opened slowly, groaning under their own weight, as Peter stepped inside the campus for the very first time. His slim fingers clutched the strap of his satchel tightly, the weight of unfamiliarity pressing down on his narrow shoulders. The school was bigger than his old one—clean, modern, and echoing with the kind of energy he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Peter's eyes flicked around cautiously, taking everything in—the buzz of students in uniforms, the sound of laughter, the faint rustle of leaves stirred by the early morning breeze. His pale brown curls shifted slightly in the wind, and he brushed them aside from his glasses. The familiar weight of his grief lingered silently beside him, like an invisible shadow. It had only been three months since his mother’s death. The pain hadn't dulled. If anything, it had settled deeper, quiet and constant.

His transfer had been sudden, prompted by a scholarship meant to support students with “extraordinary academic potential and difficult circumstances.” He didn’t like how they said that in the letter. Difficult circumstances. As if losing your whole world could be reduced to a neat little phrase.

He moved slowly toward the main building, clutching the folded paper in his hand that had his timetable and class assignment.

As he crossed the open yard near the gym, he heard the sharp, rhythmic bounce of a basketball echoing across the court. He paused.

There, under the golden light of morning, was a boy in a sleeveless jersey—moving like a storm of grace and control. His lean, muscular frame shifted smoothly across the court. Each dribble was sharp, each step purposeful. The ball flew from his hand, arced through the air, and swished cleanly through the hoop without touching the rim. Again. And again. Effortless.

Peter stood frozen, lips slightly parted. That boy was magnetic.

He had dark brown hair that looked wind-tousled, even though he was clearly sweating. His strong arms flexed as he reached for the ball again, and the sun hit his jawline just right—it was so sharply defined it almost looked like it was carved from marble. When he turned briefly, Peter caught sight of those eyes—cool steel blue, focused, determined.

That had to be Victor—Peter had heard the name mentioned in the hallway. Star athlete. The school’s pride.

Peter looked down at his own slender frame, then at the basketball court again. He felt a dull ache in his chest, not just from grief, but from the quiet, constant frustration of having a body too fragile for the things he wished he could do. His doctors had always advised against heavy physical activity. He wasn’t sick, exactly—but his health had always been delicate. A heart murmur. Low stamina. Nothing fatal, but enough to hold him back.

With a silent sigh, Peter turned away and headed toward his classroom.

The corridors were quieter now, the noise of the bell drawing most students inside. He found his class—Grade 11B—and slowly pushed open the door.

The classroom buzzed with chatter, desks scattered in that typical controlled chaos of teenagers settling in. No one noticed him enter. He preferred it that way.

His eyes scanned the room quickly. He ignored the loud group near the back, the center desks full of casual conversation, and instead moved straight to the corner seat by the window. The desk was neat, the view outside framed by sunlight and green leaves. Perfect.

He slipped into the seat and placed his satchel on the ground. With the faintest creak, the chair settled beneath his small frame. He turned to the window and stared quietly.

The world outside was vivid. The trees swayed gently, and the wind carried the scent of spring. A few birds perched on the fence nearby, chirping quietly. The sky was a bright blue, like watercolor spilled across a blank page.

It felt... peaceful. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Peter leaned his elbow on the desk and rested his chin on his hand, eyes distant but alert. He wasn't here to make friends. He wasn’t here to belong. He was here to survive the year, to study, and to make his mother proud—wherever she was now.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about the boy on the court. Victor. Something about him lingered in Peter’s mind—not just the way he moved, but the quiet intensity in his eyes.

Peter didn’t know it yet, but that single glance would change everything.

Victor jogged back into the school building with a towel slung around his neck, his jersey clinging to his skin. He’d stayed on the court a little longer than planned—he always did. There was something about the rhythm of the game that cleared his mind. It was his escape, his place.

As he entered the hallway, the bell had already rung, and the classroom doors had started to close. He didn’t rush—he never had to. Victor had that aura about him: part confidence, part reputation. People made space for him without him having to ask.

He turned into 11B and walked straight in. The teacher hadn’t arrived yet.

The buzz in the room dimmed for a moment. A few students greeted him casually, and he nodded back, tossing his towel onto his desk—the second row, center seat, perfect view of everything.

That’s when he noticed him.

There, by the window. A new face.

Victor had been in this class for two years. He knew everyone. But this guy was new. Small frame, quiet presence. His brown curls framed his pale face, and those round glasses gave him an almost scholarly, old-world look. He sat with his elbow on the desk, chin resting on his palm, completely lost in the view outside. There was something so still about him, like he was holding his breath and waiting for the world to forget him.

Victor’s eyes narrowed slightly—not in a mean way, just... intrigued.

The new kid hadn’t looked at anyone. Didn’t seem nervous or eager to impress. He looked... tired. And kind of sad.

Victor leaned slightly to the side and whispered to Jordan, the guy beside him, “Who's the new kid?”

Jordan shrugged. “Transfer student. Peter something. Scholarship. Heard his mom passed away. Bit of a genius though.”

Victor’s eyebrows lifted just a little. Smart. Quiet. Tragic past. That explained the faraway look.

He glanced back at Peter again, more openly this time.

There was something oddly... cute about him. Not in a flashy, look-at-me way, but in the way a lost song makes you pause. Fragile, soft edges. The kind of face that didn't belong in noisy places. His fingers tapped gently against the side of his notebook, a rhythm only he seemed to hear.

As if sensing eyes on him, Peter suddenly turned—and their gazes locked for a brief second.

Victor didn’t look away.

Peter’s hazel eyes widened just slightly behind the lenses, golden flecks catching the morning light. His lips parted like he was about to say something but didn’t. Instead, he quickly turned back to the window, clearly uncomfortable under the attention.

Victor smirked, just a little.

Shy.

Interesting.

The classroom door creaked open, and the teacher finally entered, breaking the moment. Victor sat back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head, but his eyes drifted back to the window seat more than once.