GILDED, daniel larusso x reader

9 | a test of patience

"Isn't it, uh... that boy's test today?"

That boy.

I know exactly who he's talking about.

"Daniel's? Yeah, it is," I say, trying not to sound as invested as I actually am. "I'm hoping he'll pass. His grade on that test is basically my grade too."

Jeremy nods, but I can tell he doesn't actually care. It's the kind of nod you give when you're pretending to listen, waiting for your turn to speak. And then it comes:

"Hmm. Did he try anything?"

I exhale sharply through my nose. Here we go again.

We stop outside the Drama room, and I lean casually against the wall as Jeremy faces me, his height making it necessary for me to tilt my chin up slightly. I smirk. "I told you I'd tell you if he did, didn't I?"

"Well, did he?"

I let the corner of my mouth curve, lowering my voice just enough to be infuriatingly vague. "Mhm," I hum, tone dipping into something suggestive, teasing.

Jeremy's brows lift, eyes narrowing in a mix of curiosity and suspicion. "Really?"

I nod, eyes flickering up at him through my lashes. "We were alone. In my room."

He leans in, hand pressing against the wall beside me, effectively cornering me in a way that was supposed to be intimidating but was mostly just hilarious. "And what happened?"

There's something in my gaze—a calculated kind of innocence. I tilt my head. "You don't wanna know," I murmur. "It was very, very messy."

Jeremy exhales, his smirk deepening. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

I let a pause linger before lowering my gaze. And that's when I see it.

"...Fix your pants," I say flatly, pushing him off me.

He groans, adjusting his stance. "Okay, okay—jeez. Just making sure."

"Mmhm." I grab my books from his hands, throwing a look over my shoulder as I step into the Drama room. "And stop being so paranoid. Daniel's a douche. I'd never—and I mean never—let him touch me."

Jeremy looks satisfied with that answer, and the bell rings, signaling the start of class.

But as I take my seat, trying to focus on method acting, my mind keeps drifting elsewhere.

Next period.

Third period.

The test.

I tell myself I only care about the extra credit. But the way my stomach coils with anticipation tells me it might not be that simple.

︑︒⚬∙︓·⠄

The classroom door swings open, and I step in, my gaze immediately sweeping the room like a well-practiced scan. I'm looking for that one familiar face. The one with dark hair, always a little too messy, and those eyes that manage to look tired even at eight in the morning. And then—there he is.

Daniel LaRusso.

Of course. He's sitting at his desk, fiddling with his pencils like he's trying to figure out the meaning of life through the tips of his number two. I can't help but stare for a second longer than I should.

The irony of it all hits me: He's on time. For English.

He's never on time for English. Never.

I blink it off, forcing myself to approach him with that casual stride I've spent years perfecting. I let a smile slip onto my face, but it fades almost instantly, like it doesn't quite belong here.