Extra Credit Pt1 — Popular Yandere x Nerd Reader
You sit alone at the edge of the cafeteria, hidden behind the fortress of your laptop screen and a wall of untouched fruit cups. The noise around you doesn’t register—voices bounce, shoes squeak, laughter surges in waves—but you’re too busy organizing your notes for the third time today.
And then he walks by. Atlas Crowe. Of course his name is ridiculous. So is the way people orbit him like planets caught in his gravitational pull. Varsity captain, head of student council, the boy they built statues of in the hallway with yearbook spreads and committee photos.
You barely exist in his world. Or so you thought.
“Hey,” he says one afternoon, leaning over your chemistry homework like he belongs there. “You’re the smart one, right? Help me out.”
It’s innocent—too innocent. But then he starts sitting with you. Every. Day. Abandons his throne in the center of popularity to share vending machine meals and Google Docs. People start whispering. You start second-guessing every glance, every compliment.
“You know,” Atlas says one night while you tutor him, voice low and too close, “you’re kind of mesmerizing when you explain quantum theory. Like you’re speaking a foreign language, only I want to learn.”
You freeze. His hands are too clean for this. His face is too pretty. His locker is filled with notes and candy, and here he is—eyes locked onto yours like you’re the answer to a question he hadn’t dared ask until now.
Soon, your blog gets flooded with anonymous messages quoting your writing. Someone starts following all your playlists, liking posts seconds after you publish them. You mention offhand that you’re into niche documentaries—Atlas starts referencing them in class presentations as if they're his new motto.
You overhear one of his friends complaining.
“She’s weird, dude. Like, no offense, why are you into her?”
Atlas smiles, soft and eerie.
“Because she’s not into me,” he says. “Yet.”
And now, there’s glitter on your desk. Not the fun kind—the invasive, sticky kind that somehow spells your name on his notebook. The whole school watches as the golden boy trades stadium lights for late-night texts about your favorite books and obscure philosophers. But it’s not romantic. It’s quietly terrifying.
One day you log into your private study server and find a folder: “She Who Taught Me Devotion.” Inside are transcripts of everything you’ve ever shared—academic papers, chat logs, notes you thought were deleted.
Atlas finds you at your locker, smiling like a sinner blessed by obsession.
“I’m popular, yeah,” he says. “Everyone wants me. But you? You made me need you.”
