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Saint Dirty Face

Tag: #NaughtyButSweet

  • The Dare

    Robert

    Midnight. The house is silent, but my desk looks like a warzone—textbooks piled, coffee cups breeding like rabbits, highlighters bleeding across every page.

    And then there’s Lisa Wong.

    The exchange student who somehow treats my room like it’s hers. The same girl who claimed my bed the first night now sits cross-legged at the desk, leaning way too close, pointing at formulas like I’m the one who signed up for this class.

    “Pay attention,” she says, her silver top catching the desk lamp like it’s a spotlight.

    “To the book, or to you?” I ask.

    She doesn’t even flinch. Just grins, that mischievous grin that says she’s enjoying this way too much.

    Her shoulder brushes mine. Her foot nudges me under the desk. Not accidents—never accidents. She’s daring me without saying it, pushing the line between sweet study buddy and troublemaker in disguise.

    “You know,” I say, “most people use tutors. Not… exchange students with territorial issues.”

    “Tutors are boring,” she fires back. “I make learning fun.”

    And she does. That’s the problem. Every joke, every bump of her knee, every time she tilts her head and looks at me like she knows the answer already—it all lights something up I’m not supposed to notice.

    The dare isn’t spoken, but it’s loud. It’s in her laugh when she catches me staring. It’s in the way she leans in so close I can smell her shampoo. It’s in the way she doesn’t move back, not even a fraction.

    And here’s the kicker:

    I don’t move either.

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    Saint Dirty Face™

    Stay Dirty, Stay Rebellious™

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  • The Exchange: Lisa Wong Moves In

    Robert

    You don’t plan for this kind of thing. You drag yourself home, half-dead from the day, and there she is—Lisa Wong. An exchange student. In your room. On your bed.

    Her silver top glows like it swallowed the last bit of sunlight, her dark hair spilling across your pillow like it belongs there more than you do. She looks up from her phone, calm as if she’s been waiting on you her whole life.

    “So,” she says, crossing her legs, “roommate perks include claiming the best spot, right?”

    You should tell her to move. You should reclaim your space. But instead, you lean against the doorframe, fighting the smirk tugging at your mouth.

    “That’s not how this works.”

    “Pretty sure it is,” she shoots back. “Check the fine print.”

    She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t budge. And you realize, in that moment, this isn’t a guest—it’s a storm in disguise. A sweet, highly intelligent storm that knows exactly how to press buttons you didn’t know you had.

    The first week is chaos wrapped in laughter. She studies at your desk, books spread like battle plans, while you pretend not to notice the way her foot brushes yours under the table. She steals your hoodie “because it smells like laundry detergent and bad decisions.” She sticks Post-it notes on your mirror with things like Eat breakfast, dummy—sweet one day, mocking the next.

    And then there are the late nights.

    The house is silent, shadows thick. You’re half-asleep, scrolling your phone, when Lisa appears in the doorway. No knock, just that mischievous grin.

    “Couldn’t sleep,” she says.

    “You know this is my room, right?”

    “Our room,” she corrects, climbing onto the bed without waiting.

    She doesn’t touch you, not exactly. She just lays close enough that you feel the warmth of her skin radiating through the space between you. A naughty dare, wordless, sparking against the edges of something you’re not ready to name.

    You catch her watching you sometimes, head tilted, eyes sharp. She notices when you forget your keys, when you mumble in your sleep, when your laugh cracks in the middle. And she stores it all away with that terrifyingly smart brain of hers—filing you under “study subject turned friend turned… something else.”

    Because that’s what this is turning into.

    Not just roommates. Not just friends. Something thicker, heavier, humming under every stolen glance and playful insult.

    The world would call it cliché. The exchange student, the accidental roommate, the forbidden spark. But lying there, listening to her breathe beside you, it feels less like a cliché and more like a story fate has been itching to write.

    And if you’re honest with yourself?

    You don’t mind being the co-author.

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    Saint Dirty Face™

    Stay Dirty, Stay Rebellious™

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