Chapter Text
The Popularity Project
Chapter One: The Dare
The Delta Sigma house smelled like stale beer, cheap cologne, and bad decisions. Ferran Torres had long since stopped noticing. Friday nights blurred together into a highlight reel of his perfectly curated college experience—the parties where everyone knew his name, the girls who left lipstick marks on his cheek, the guys who slapped his back like they’d been friends forever even when Ferran couldn’t remember their names.
He sat on the leather couch that had seen better days, his arm draped casually over the backrest, watching his teammates and fraternity brothers spiral into their usual weekend chaos. Gavi was attempting some kind of drinking game that involved terrible Spanish rap. Ansu was already passed out in the corner. Eric was making out with someone new—Ferran had lost count.
“Ferran!” Marc stumbled over, his cheeks flushed, eyes glassy with alcohol. “Truth or dare, hermano?”
“Neither,” Ferran said with an easy smile. He’d perfected that smile—friendly but distant, warm but untouchable. It was the smile that got him everything he wanted.
“Come on, don’t be boring.” Marc collapsed next to him, nearly spilling his beer on Ferran’s designer jeans. “You never do anything interesting anymore.”
“I scored three goals last week.”
“That’s just you being you. I’m talking about a real challenge.” Marc’s eyes gleamed with that particular drunk brilliance that usually preceded terrible ideas. “I dare you to do something actually hard.”
Despite himself, Ferran felt a flicker of interest. He was competitive by nature—it’s what made him a star forward, what pushed him to maintain his 3.8 GPA while everyone else in the business program was content with gentlemen’s Cs. “I’m listening.”
“Make someone popular. Like, really popular.” Marc gestured wildly, sloshing beer onto the already-stained carpet. “But not just anyone. The biggest loser on campus.”
A few guys had gathered around now, sensing entertainment.
“That’s stupid,” Ferran said, but his mind was already working through the logistics, the challenge of it.
“I’ll make it worth your while. Do it by the end of the semester, and my car is yours.”
That got everyone’s attention. Marc’s car was a pristine BMW M4, his eighteenth birthday present from parents who had more money than sense. Ferran didn’t need it—his own Audi was perfectly fine—but the principle of winning was intoxicating.
“Define ‘popular,’” Ferran said, sitting up straighter.
“Invited to parties. People know their name. Sits with a group at lunch instead of alone. You know, normal human things.” Marc leaned in conspiratorially. “And I’ve got the perfect candidate. Pedri González.”
The name meant almost nothing to Ferran. A vague impression of someone small and quiet, always disappearing before anyone could really look at him.
“The engineering major?” Gavi asked. “The one who sits in the back of Econ and never talks?”
“That’s the one. Total loner. Weirdo. I heard he got reported by his freshman roommate for being creepy or something, and no one’s wanted to hang with him since.”
Something about the casual cruelty of it made Ferran pause, but only for a moment. This was college. This was how it worked. There were winners and losers, and Ferran had always been a winner.
“What’s the catch?” he asked.
“No catch. Just make him popular. Get him integrated. I want to see him at parties, with friends, living an actual college life. You’ve got until finals week in December. That’s ten weeks.”
Ferran considered it. Ten weeks to transform someone’s entire social existence. It should have seemed impossible, but Ferran had never met a challenge he couldn’t overcome. Besides, wouldn’t he be doing this Pedri guy a favor? Everyone deserved to be happy, to have friends, to experience the best years of their lives.
He was practically being charitable.
“Deal,” Ferran said, extending his hand.
Marc shook it with drunken enthusiasm, and the guys around them cheered. Ferran smiled that winning smile, accepted another beer he wouldn’t finish, and tried to ignore the small voice in his head that whispered this was a mistake.
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Saturday morning came with the brutal sunshine that followed every party night. Ferran dragged himself to soccer practice, ran drills until his lungs burned, and tried not to think about the dare. It was just a stupid drunk bet. Marc probably wouldn’t even remember it.
But when he checked his phone after practice, there was a text: Don’t think you’re getting out of this. I remember everything. Start Monday.
Followed by: BTW, Pedri’s usually at the library. Good luck, pretty boy.
Ferran stared at his phone, water from the shower dripping down his neck. He could back out. Laugh it off. Say it was just drunk talk.
But everyone would know. And Ferran Torres didn’t back down from challenges.
He spent the rest of the weekend doing reconnaissance. Pedri González was surprisingly hard to find information about. His Instagram was private with maybe fifty followers. His Facebook hadn’t been updated since high school. There were no tagged photos, no mutual friends, no digital footprint that suggested he existed beyond the academic.
What Ferran did find, in some deep dive through the university directory, was impressive: Dean’s List every semester, member of the engineering honor society, research assistant for one of the top professors in the robotics department. This wasn’t some slacker loser—this was someone brilliant who’d somehow become invisible.
Sunday night, Ferran lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling of his off-campus apartment, and tried to plan his approach. He’d always been good with people, could charm anyone into anything. How hard could one lonely engineering major be?
Monday morning, Ferran actually woke up to his first alarm instead of hitting snooze three times. He dressed with more care than usual—nothing too formal, but fitted jeans and a sweater that he knew made his shoulders look good. First impressions mattered.
The library was already busy at nine AM, filled with students who’d discovered that syllabus week was a lie and the work started immediately. Ferran scanned the main floor, didn’t see his target, then headed upstairs to the quieter study sections.
He found Pedri on the third floor, tucked into a corner table by the window. Marc’s description of “loner weirdo” had not prepared Ferran for the reality.
Pedri González was beautiful.
Not in the conventional way that Ferran was used to—not the Instagram model look of the girls who hung around the soccer team, or the gym-bro aesthetic of his fraternity brothers. Pedri was delicate, almost ethereal, with dark hair that fell across his forehead and obscured his eyes as he hunched over his textbook. He wore an oversized gray hoodie that swallowed his frame, and his fingers—long and graceful—moved across his notebook with the precision of someone creating art rather than taking notes.
Ferran stood there for a moment, suddenly uncertain. This wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d expected someone awkward, maybe unkempt, someone who obviously didn’t fit. But Pedri just looked… quiet. Contained. Like he’d deliberately made himself small.
Before he could second-guess himself, Ferran walked over and slid into the chair across from Pedri.
Pedri looked up slowly, and Ferran got his first real look at those eyes—deep brown, intelligent, and currently filled with confusion. Up close, Ferran noticed the faint shadows under them, suggesting late nights and too much work. He noticed the way Pedri’s hand stilled on his pencil, tense, like he was ready to bolt.
“Hey,” Ferran said, deploying his friendliest smile.
Pedri blinked. “Hi?” It came out as a question, tentative and guarded.
“I’m Ferran. Ferran Torres.” He waited for the usual recognition, the brightening that came when people realized who he was.
Instead, Pedri just stared at him with those analytical eyes, processing. “Okay?”
“We have Econ 202 together. Professor Martinez’s class?”
“I know who you are.” Pedri’s voice was soft, but there was something sharp underneath it. Not quite hostile, but certainly not welcoming. “You sit in the front row with your friends. You’re on the soccer team.”
“Guilty,” Ferran said, still smiling. This was going fine. Conversation was happening. “I noticed you always sit in the back.”
“The acoustics are better in the back. Professor Martinez has a tendency to drop his voice at the end of sentences, and the back wall creates a natural amplification that—” Pedri stopped abruptly, something like embarrassment crossing his face. “Sorry. I’m rambling.”
“No, that’s actually really interesting. I never thought about that.” And weirdly, Ferran meant it. He leaned forward. “Listen, I know this is random, but I’m really struggling with the problem set that’s due Wednesday. I heard you’re good at this stuff, and I was wondering if you could help me out?”
The temperature in Pedri’s expression dropped about ten degrees. “You heard I’m good at this stuff.”
“Yeah, Professor Martinez mentioned in office hours that—”
“You’re a business major,” Pedri interrupted quietly. “The problem set is basic microeconomics. Supply and demand curves. Elasticity. It’s literally designed for business majors.” He tilted his head slightly, still watching Ferran with those too-smart eyes. “So either you’re actually failing intro-level Econ, which seems unlikely given you’re in the advanced section, or you want something else.”
Ferran felt his smile falter for just a second. He wasn’t used to people seeing through him so quickly. “I just thought—”
“Thank you for the offer, but I’m busy.” Pedri looked back down at his textbook, a clear dismissal. “Good luck with the problem set.”
For a moment, Ferran just sat there, stunned. People didn’t dismiss him. That wasn’t how this worked. He was Ferran Torres—star athlete, top student, guy everyone wanted to be around. And this quiet engineering major with the oversized hoodie had just shut him down without a second thought.
It should have annoyed him. Instead, he felt intrigued.
“What are you working on?” Ferran asked, not moving.
Pedri looked up again, surprise flickering across his features. “Why do you care?”
“Because it looks complicated and interesting.” Ferran gestured at the notebook, which was covered in equations and diagrams that looked like beautiful, incomprehensible art. “I’m assuming engineering homework?”
“Thermodynamics,” Pedri said after a pause. “Second law applications. I’m designing a theoretical heat engine that could improve efficiency by—” He stopped again, that same shuttered look. “Never mind. It’s boring.”
“It’s not boring. I don’t understand it, but that doesn’t make it boring.”
Pedri studied him for a long moment, and Ferran had the uncomfortable sensation of being x-rayed, analyzed, reduced to component parts. “What do you really want, Ferran?”
The way Pedri said his name—soft but precise—made something flutter in Ferran’s chest. He pushed it away, focused on the mission. But maybe the direct approach wasn’t going to work here. Maybe he needed to be honest, or at least more honest.
“Okay, truth? I’m not actually struggling with Econ. You’re right, it’s pretty straightforward for me.” Ferran ran a hand through his hair, a gesture he knew made him look appealingly uncertain. “But I saw you in class, and you always seem so focused and smart, and I guess I wanted an excuse to talk to you. That probably sounds stupid.”
Pedri’s expression didn’t change. “Why would you want to talk to me?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because no one does.” It wasn’t self-pitying, just stated as fact. “I’m not part of your world, Ferran Torres. I don’t go to parties. I don’t care about soccer. I’m not going to help your social life or make you look good to your friends. So I’ll ask again: what do you want?”
The bluntness of it left Ferran speechless for a moment. He’d been so focused on the challenge, on winning Marc’s stupid bet, that he hadn’t really thought about Pedri as a person. Someone with their own life, their own reasons for being alone.
“Maybe I just want to get to know you,” Ferran said quietly. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“Yes,” Pedri said simply. “It is.”
They looked at each other across the table, and Ferran realized this was going to be much harder than he’d thought. You couldn’t charm someone who didn’t want to be charmed, couldn’t manipulate someone who saw through manipulation.
He’d have to actually try.
“Okay,” Ferran said, standing up. “I get it. Random soccer guy shows up and bothers you out of nowhere. That’s weird. I’m sorry.”
Pedri blinked, clearly surprised by the apology.
“But here’s the thing—I really do suck at Econ, just not the current problem set. Next week we’re starting game theory and Nash equilibrium, and my brain does not work that way. If you ever want to help a struggling student out, my offer for coffee and payment stands. No ulterior motives, just one person asking another for academic help.”
He pulled out his phone. “Can I at least give you my number? In case you change your mind?”
Pedri hesitated, then slowly took out his own phone—an older model with a cracked screen protector. They exchanged numbers in silence.
“Thanks,” Ferran said. “And sorry again for interrupting your thermodynamics. I hope your theoretical heat engine works out.”
He turned to leave, made it three steps before Pedri’s voice stopped him.
“Ferran?”
He turned back. Pedri was watching him with an expression Ferran couldn’t quite read.
“If you really need help with game theory, message me. I’m usually here from nine to noon most days.” Pedri’s fingers tapped nervously on his pencil. “But just academic help. Nothing else.”
Ferran felt a genuine smile—not his practiced one—cross his face. “Just academic help. I promise.”
As he walked out of the library, Ferran realized his heart was beating faster than usual. That had been terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. Pedri had seen right through him, called him on his bullshit, and still offered help anyway.
This was going to be complicated.
When Ferran checked his phone later, there was a text from Marc: How’d it go, Romeo?
Ferran stared at it for a long time before replying: Harder than I thought. But I’m in.
What he didn’t say, what he couldn’t quite articulate even to himself, was that somewhere in that brief conversation, the dare had started to feel less like a challenge and more like something else entirely.
Something dangerous.