Drew and Mentari BB Love Story

 

Part One: The Alpha Chassis and the Anatomic Flaw

For Mentari Rakaprabawa, dating Drew Starkey was an extreme sport. It was, simultaneously, the most bewilderingly proud and soul-crushingly exhausting commitment of her short, intense life.

She wasn't supposed to be here. She was supposed to be a laser-focused, pre-med ascetic, burning the midnight oil in the dimly lit corner of the university library, her ambition serving as her only boyfriend. Mentari was an international student, and every second she spent stateside, every dollar she spent on tuition, was a direct investment in her mother's future. Getting into the University of North Carolina from Jakarta, Indonesia, had been a solo mission executed with terrifying precision. She missed the humid, sticky comfort of her home, and especially her mother, but she knew this was the price of the future she was building—a future where her mom could retire far away from the choking noise and relentless, grey pollution of the Jakarta sprawl, and instead, enjoy crisp American air, subsidized healthcare, and the quiet pride of a daughter who was now Dr. Rakaprabawa.

That future required sacrifice. It required a 4.0 GPA, perfect MCAT scores, and relentless lab work. It did not require a six-foot-three distraction who smelled faintly of designer cologne and unearned arrogance.

Well, the thing is, the greatest, most potent, and most historically effective distraction for any high-ambition girl is always, inevitably, a boy.

Mentari had always viewed men as interesting creatures—a paradox she studied with the same detached curiosity she applied to cellular respiration. Sometimes, she hated them, deeply and academically, for their historical, structural oppression of her entire gender, for their casual sexism, and for the sheer volume of their crimes against women globally. She hated the way systems were built to favor their mediocre confidence. But then, hell, they were undeniably hot. It was a cruel, cosmic joke—the oppressors were packaged in such aesthetically pleasing wrapping paper. She often wished there was a standardized training program—a four-year compulsory course in Basic Decency and Functioning Part of Society—because, truly, as a collective, men were often a mess. But damn, they were hot.

And no one embodied that infuriating dichotomy more than her current boyfriend, Drew Starkey.

Back home in Indonesia, she would never have predicted she would fall in love with a ridiculously hot, genetically blessed white guy from an arch-conservative, old-money family, let alone the President of the oldest, most pretentious frat on campus. But damn... the raw, uncomplicated physical presence of him was impossible to ignore. He stood 6'3", casting a shadow that swallowed her petite 4'11" frame whole. He was broad-shouldered, athletic, and impeccably maintained, looking less like a college student and more like a Greek statue carved from golden marble. His hair, naturally dark blonde, was always kept in a neat crew cut—a pragmatic choice for the biker helmet, but one that only emphasized the clean, strong lines of his jaw. His eyes were piercing, clear blue, the color of a swimming pool in the Hamptons. And yes, absolutely, she was going to admit it, we’re all adults here: his dick was huge. He was the literal, breathing epitome of the alpha man trope, and the attraction was a gravitational pull she fought constantly.

But the sexism, oh god, the sexism. It was a suffocating layer of entitlement that clung to him like his expensive cologne. It was like Drew always expected her to be his trophy wife, the exotic miss queen bee of the AKD frat house. She knew a thousand girls on campus wanted her position—the girlfriend of the most desired man, the one who had successfully "tamed" the playboy who used to change girls in a heartbeat. Now, she was reasonably sure Drew only had eyes for her. Or, at least, she knew time to time Drew was caught looking at another girl’s impressive chest. She hated that she sometimes excused it as “boys will be boys,” a phrase that tasted like ash on her tongue, but the sheer effort of fighting him every single day sometimes felt like it wasn’t worth the eventual reward.

He always introduced her as beautiful, pretty, her “putri” (a word he’d learned meant “princess” in Indonesian, along with sayang for “dear” or “love”). He never once introduced her as Mentari Rakaprabawa, Pre-Med student, or the girl who could crush him in a debate on the Krebs cycle. It was always her looks first, her accessory status second.

Drew’s daily microaggressions were her constant background noise. He constantly referred to her demanding pre-med major as her “little doctor hobby” or “project.” He’d ask her what she'd really do once they graduated, implying she'd only attend charity galas or decorate his summer home. Just last week, when she was studying for a difficult Immunology test, he had tried to “help” by explaining basic cellular differentiation, treating her like a freshman and ignoring her increasingly exasperated corrections. Like, Drew, honey, she had thought, biting back the fire, you’re a finance major. You don’t know a thing about immunology, babe. Your greatest academic achievement is probably convincing the Dean to overlook that party fine.

Mentari had just finished a brutal four-hour lab on the musculoskeletal system. Her brain was fried, but her body felt energized from the walk. She cut across the central lawn and approached the sprawling live oak where Drew was predictably sitting with his usual pack of AKD brothers. She scanned the group: some frat boys were notoriously stinky, reeking of cheap beer and desperation, but Drew, to his credit, was always immaculate. He wore a sharp, dark blue polo shirt that hugged his magnificent, broad-shouldered body—the chosen uniform of the casually wealthy—and the scent of expensive sandalwood and sea salt hit her even before she reached them.

She dropped her backpack and sat down right beside him, leaning her shoulder into his warm, firm bicep.

Drew immediately kissed her forehead, his lips lingering a moment longer than necessary—a signature possessive move. “Hey, sayang,” he murmured, his voice a low, rumbling baritone that always gave her stupid little stomach butterflies.

“Hey, gantengku,” she replied, using her own mix of Indonesian affection—my handsome one—to keep him slightly off balance. She squeezed his arm. “So, movie night at my place tonight. Just us?” she asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to confirm the peace.

Drew’s eyes darted past her shoulder to his brothers, who were clearly discussing some low-stakes campus gossip. “You sure you don’t want to do it at the frat house, putri? We’ve got the new fifty-inch screen set up. The vibe is usually better.”

She made a face, letting her nose wrinkle dramatically. “Come on. I just want to relax with my boy. Your frat house smells like stale beer, Axe body spray, and suppressed male fragility. It’s too much.”

Drew laughed, a loud, deep sound that immediately drew the attention of the surrounding frat boys, cementing his position as the focal point. “Fine, fine, babe. Anything you want. I can grab some good takeout from that Italian spot you like.”

Mentari pulled her wallet out of her bag. “Thanks, but well, I guess it’s time for me to buy you. I just got my scholarship deposit this week, and I’m flush.”

His hand, large and tanned, immediately covered hers, pressing it gently against the wallet. He wasn't aggressive, but the move was absolute. It was the soft velvet glove covering the iron fist of his gender politics.

“No, no, no,” he said, shaking his head with an air of patient amusement, as if explaining gravity to a toddler. “Real men always pay, Mentari. You know I can pay. And besides, I want you to save that money your mom sent for something nice. A new dress or something.”

Mentari’s jaw tightened. She hated that—the instant pivot from her autonomy to her appearance. “First off, Drew, it’s not ‘money my mom sent.’ It’s my scholarship money for my education. And second, buying dinner for the man I’m dating is using the money for something good for us. It’s called being an equal partner.”

He smiled, a wide, dazzling smile that made her hate his face a little less, and pulled her sideways, settling her squarely on his lap. The move was quick, dominant, and protective, instantly placing her in a submissive position relative to the rest of his male audience. Mentari was short, even by Indonesian standards, and Drew, a massive 6’3”, made the size difference comically enormous. She loved how Drew protectively hugged her, creating a secure, warm boundary between her and the world. She hated to admit that part of her responded to the "dominate" feeling—the comforting physical security that momentarily relieved the immense pressure of her own high-stakes life. It felt good. Yet, the price was too high: the slow, insidious erosion of her identity. Time and time again, she felt Drew infantilize her, treating her like a fragile, little porcelain princess who needed shielding from the world’s harsh realities, including the financial reality of a fifty-dollar takeout order.

She shifted slightly, pulling her knees up. “Okay, fine, you pay for the Italian. But next time, I’m ordering the Uber Eats, and you’re not arguing.”

“Deal,” he conceded easily, victorious in the moment. He ran a large hand up and down her back, establishing proprietary comfort. “What time should I grab the food?”

Mentari glanced at her watch. “In about forty minutes. I just need to sign off on a late drop-add form at the registrar’s office in Hall C. Just wait here, I’ll be quick.”

As she started to slide off his lap, Drew’s hand clamped gently, but firmly, on her hip, holding her still.

“Wait, what? Hall C? Mentari, that’s halfway across campus. Why are you walking?”

“Because it’s a beautiful day, Drew, and my legs work perfectly,” she said, rolling her eyes.

Drew reached for his leather jacket and the matte black helmet sitting beside him. “No way. That walk is a solid fifteen minutes, and it’s getting hot out. I’ll ride you over.”

“Drew, gantengku,” she said, emphasizing the Indonesian word for extra persuasive charm. “I can walk, and besides, it’s kind of a quick, private girl thing. I just need to go in and come out. It’s seriously fine.”

He stood up, pulling her up with him, his height forcing her to look straight up into those blinding blue eyes. His face was set in a frown of deeply ingrained protectiveness—or perhaps, deeply ingrained control. “But when you have the Triumph Bonneville T100 at your disposal, you don’t need to walk, sayang.” He made the statement sound like an unassailable law of physics.

Mentari seized the opening. “Well, you know what? I can borrow your bike then. Give me the keys. It’ll be faster, and I won’t feel like I’m wasting your precious time waiting on me.”

The reaction was instantaneous, not just from Drew, but from his entire pack. A ripple of sharp, condescending laughter broke out among the four frat brothers sitting nearby. It wasn’t mean laughter, just the kind of amused, dismissive sound that privileged men use when a woman suggests something profoundly impractical, like running for President or performing her own oil change.

Drew’s smile was indulgent, but his tone was absolute, laced with the ingrained chauvinism she had come to expect. “Babe, you don’t have the mechanical intuition to handle it or the upper body strength to balance it,” he said, his voice laced with patronizing finality. He even winked at his brothers, soliciting their agreement. One of them, a perpetually grinning meathead named Chad, nodded vigorously.

“Yeah, Mentari, that thing is heavy,” Chad added helpfully, as if she were contemplating lifting a fridge.

Mentari felt a white-hot flash of anger, the kind that always settled deep in her chest when her intelligence and capability were dismissed in favor of her perceived femininity. She wanted to launch into a full anatomical lecture right there, starting with the distribution of muscle mass in the female core and ending with the sheer stupidity of relying on a combustion engine when her own two feet were perfectly functional. Instead, she took a slow, deep breath, remembering the lesson she’d taught him in the boxing gym just a few days ago—the one that ended with him clutching his liver and questioning the very nature of his “male chassis.”

Not today, Drew, she thought. Today is about the administrative grunt work. But your dismissal of my mechanical aptitude is now filed in the “Future Anatomical Retribution” folder.

“Wow. That’s actually a really offensive thing to say, but whatever,” she clipped out, her voice dangerously flat. She didn't waste time arguing the point. She simply sidestepped his protective reach and grabbed her bag.

Drew looked momentarily startled by the sharpness of her tone, but he quickly recovered, transforming the moment into another gesture of heroic service. He grabbed his leather jacket and helmet.

“Come on, I’ll ride you,” he commanded, already tossing the helmet over his head. “It’s faster, safer, and I get to make sure no weirdos bother my putri.”

He hadn't heard a single word. He hadn't processed the offense. He had simply re-framed the entire exchange into an opportunity to be her hero, the man who saves the damsel from the grueling, potentially dangerous task of… walking.

Mentari let out a silent, weary sigh—a quiet, internal protest that the frat boys couldn't hear. She wanted to scream at him. She wanted to point out that her hands had been elbow-deep in cadaver fluid while he was probably doing Keg stands, and yet, he still thought she needed him to protect her from a simple half-mile walk across a sunny college campus.

She didn't fight him, not this time. She climbed onto the back of his Triumph, the smooth, cold leather of his jacket pressing against her cheek, the dominant scent of his expensive cologne filling her lungs. As he revved the engine, the deep, guttural sound reverberating beneath her, Mentari wrapped her arms around his waist. The feeling of being held by his sheer strength was, against her better judgment, intoxicating. She closed her eyes, resting her head against the broad, solid expanse of his back, and let the masculine noise and speed temporarily drown out her internal feminist protest.

Just forty minutes, she promised herself. Forty minutes of passive existence, and then it’s back to immunology and calculating the anatomical weak points of the human male for future use.

She squeezed him just a little tighter, a small, internal gesture that said, I love you, you beautiful asshole, but you are a problem I am going to solve. The motorcycle roared to life, pulling them out onto the street. The administrative office of Hall C awaited, and after that, the complex, volatile, and deeply confusing comfort of their movie night.

Part Two: The Calculus of Control and the Groin Gambit

The roar of the Triumph Bonneville T100 was a physical language, a deep, masculine thrum that vibrated up Mentari’s body, momentarily silencing the loud, insistent feminism raging in her head. Her cheek was pressed against the soft, worn leather of Drew’s jacket, and her arms were locked tight around the solid, unyielding column of his torso. In this moment of raw speed and sound, she was purely an accessory, a beautiful, necessary attachment to his powerful machine, and for a fleeting, exhausted instant, it was a relief. The world was moving too fast to require her to be responsible, rational, or equal. It just required her to hold on. The scent of sandalwood, leather, and gasoline was intoxicating, the kind of dangerously appealing cocktail that made her forget she had just been condescendingly told she was too weak and too female to operate the machine itself.

They pulled up to Hall C, the ugly, Brutalist administrative building that looked like a concrete bunker designed to crush student dreams under the weight of bureaucracy. Drew didn't even bother trying to find a designated parking spot. He simply angled the Triumph onto the curb near the main entrance, cutting the engine with a theatrical flourish that drew the eyes of everyone walking past.

As the roar died, the silence was instantly filled with the murmur of campus life and, more specifically, the subtle snapping of heads. Mentari watched, detached, as three different girls—two walking together with heavy notebooks, one sitting alone on a nearby bench—all instantly locked onto Drew. She saw the familiar arc: the initial appreciation for the height and the jawline, the envy for the motorcycle, and then the inevitable look of assessment focused directly on her, the exotic, petite girl draped around the campus Alpha.

And in that moment, she felt the familiar, complex swirl of emotions she hated to admit. Is she good enough? The question, so deeply internalized by patriarchal conditioning, would always surface. Was she pretty enough, skinny enough, interesting enough to hold the attention of Drew Starkey, the undisputed Alpha of the entire Greek system?

But then a different thought, a sharper, more empowering calculation, cut through the noise. She remembered Garrett. Garrett Dubois, the hot, dark-haired, annoyingly charming president of the rival Delta Tau Beta frat. Garrett, who was almost as handsome as Drew but played a slightly softer, more politically aware game. Garrett, who had made a point of seeking Mentari out at the recent campus leadership mixer, subtly questioning Drew's antiquated views on finance and international trade while keeping his eyes locked on her.

Mentari knew that Drew was dimly aware of Garrett’s interest. And that, she realized with a cynical, self-aware smirk, was the true source of her current, inflated value. Her worth wasn't defined by her pre-med acceptance or her 4.0 GPA; it was defined by her status as a contested commodity between two high-value males. Her mom would absolutely lecture her—a three-hour-long, heartfelt sermon delivered over Zoom—about the cardinal sin of letting male attention define her worth. And Mentari agreed with the principle. She did. But was it wrong to feel a tiny, delicious surge of power when two of the hottest, most entitled men in town were forced to compete for her? At least Drew, with his raw, unapologetic honesty about his chauvinism, was marginally better than Garrett, who coated his entitlement in performative woke-speak. Drew was a known variable, a quantifiable challenge. Garrett was just a prettier snake.

“Wait here,” she said, finally dismounting the bike, the ground feeling solid beneath her sneakers. She took two steps toward the hall door.

“Hold up, putri.” Drew was instantly off the bike, stripping off his helmet, running a hand over his short, perfect hair. He moved to intercept her.

Mentari stopped, exasperated. “Drew, come on. It’s the registrar’s office. I told you, it’s fine.”

He leaned down, dropping his voice conspiratorially, as if protecting her from a federal offense. “You think I’m going to leave the Triumph unattended? Even for five minutes? No one can touch my bike.” He then gestured with a subtle nod toward a nervous-looking freshman, a lanky kid named Josh who was wearing an AKD pledge shirt and awkwardly wiping sweat from his brow nearby. “That’s Josh, the new pledge. He’s stationed right here, keeping an eye on it. But I’m not leaving you alone to wander into that bureaucratic hellhole, either. Besides, I need to make sure you don’t sign anything too crazy.”

Drew had managed to do three things at once: demonstrate his wealth and territorialism, assert his dominance over a subordinate male (Josh), and imply that Mentari was too flighty to handle paperwork without supervision. She hated him so much.

“Fine,” Mentari sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “But you are not talking to the clerk. You just stand there and look pretty, gantengku. That’s your only job.”

He winked, his devastatingly handsome face breaking into a wide smile. “Easy money, babe.”

They walked into the cool, silent air of Hall C, which smelled like old paper and institutional boredom. Mentari walked straight to the counter. The clerk, an older woman with tired eyes, immediately brightened when Drew stood beside Mentari—a classic side-effect of the “Drew Starkey Field Effect.”

While the clerk processed the simple drop-add form, Mentari took the opportunity to get the other item off her chest. She had practiced the speech, knowing she needed to deliver the news quickly, with absolute conviction, before Drew could employ his usual pattern of dismissal and re-direction.

She leaned in close to him, keeping her voice low so only he could hear. “Here me out, ganteng. I’m not just dropping a class. I also came here because I’m finalizing my plans for the summer. I applied for a volunteer position with a Doctors Without Borders project.”

Drew, who was already half-listening, adjusting the cuff of his blue polo, immediately straightened, his entire posture freezing. “The what project? I thought we were going to the Keys, babe.”

Mentari ignored the bait. “It’s a two-week program. I’ll be teaching young girls across the Bahamas about basic reproductive health, hygiene, and anatomy. It’s exactly the kind of field experience I need for my med school application, and it’s actually going to help people.”

The change in Drew was instantaneous and dramatic. The easy, confident amusement vanished, replaced by a cold, hard glare. His blue eyes, usually so dazzling, narrowed into chips of ice.

“No. Absolutely not,” he stated, his voice a dangerous rumble. “We already planned the summer. We are going to the Starkey island in July. My island. We talked about this, Mentari. My parents are expecting you.”

Mentari stood her ground, her small body radiating focused energy. “And I’m still going to your island, Drew. I already told you, this project is only for two weeks in June. I will be back in plenty of time for your family’s annual festival of entitlement.”

She snatched the signed form from the clerk, who was now nervously pretending to organize paper clips, and turned to face Drew fully. The time for whispering was over.

“And listen to me closely, Drew, because I’m only going to say this once,” she said, her Indonesian accent becoming slightly more pronounced, lending an iron edge to her voice. “I don’t need your permission to do what I want with my life or my career. I just don’t want us to fight all the time because, newsflash: I’m my own woman and not your property. If you can’t handle that I have independent plans, then you can break up with me right now.”

She punctuated the speech by spinning on her heel and stalking toward the exit. Drew stood rigid for a beat, his jaw clenching so hard she could see the muscle tic beneath his tan skin. The words—not your property—had landed with the force of a perfectly placed kidney punch.

Mentari was already disappearing through the automatic doors when Drew finally exploded. He didn’t scream, because a Starkey never loses control in front of strangers, but he drove the toe of his expensive leather boot hard against the marble base of the wall with a sickening thud.

The Bahamas? Teaching? The sheer audacity of it burned him. It wasn't just the two weeks. It was the fact that she had secured this, planned this, and executed this without his input, without his approval. It was a total rejection of his alpha status. It contradicted the central narrative he had constructed for their relationship: that she was the talented, pretty girl he was going to save and provide for, the one who would eventually need him to open all the doors.

A deeper, more insidious feeling began to prick at his carefully constructed psyche. Mentari was going out there and making a difference. She was actively applying her knowledge to lift others up. What was he doing? Preparing for another summer of drinking high-end scotch on his private island, waiting for his dad to hand him a mid-level analyst job. Her self-made purpose made his silver spoon life look shallow and utterly meaningless. It wasn't just sexism that fueled his rage; it was a profound, unacknowledged insecurity about his own lack of real ambition. He really did want to keep her identity contained to "Drew's Girlfriend," because if she became Mentari Rakaprabawa, Doctor, the disparity between them would become unbearable.

He was still stewing, rubbing the scuff mark on his boot, when he saw her.

He watched Mentari, framed by the bright sunlight of the entrance, suddenly embrace a figure who had just stepped inside.

Anika.

Drew's entire body tensed, the anger he felt for Mentari's defiance instantly transferring to this new target. Anika Sharma. Anika was the embodiment of everything Drew hated and feared in the world: a sharp, unapologetically loud feminist who ran a campus collective dedicated to calling out his frat's toxic culture. She was the one who printed the flyers with pictures of his brothers performing questionable acts. Anika wasn’t just a rival; she was a feminist cancer, a corrosive element seeking to dismantle the comfortable order of his male-dominated universe. Drew viewed Anika as a shrieking banshee whose only purpose was to drain the fun and power out of the world. And now, his putri was hugging her.

He ducked quickly behind a tall, dusty information kiosk, hiding not because he was scared of Anika, but because he didn't want Mentari to know he was watching. The idea of Mentari and Anika being friends—sharing notes, talking about him—was a deeply unsettling betrayal.

He watched, fuming, as Anika handed Mentari a folded, neon-yellow pamphlet. Mentari hugged Anika again—a genuine, warm hug—and then quickly stuffed the pamphlet deep inside her backpack. They exchanged a few quick, low words before Anika gave Mentari a conspiratorial grin and walked off.

What the hell did Anika give her? Drew’s mind raced. Was it a protest sign? A plan to disrupt AKD rush week? The suspicion metastasized into a burning, possessive curiosity.

Drew waited until Mentari was halfway across the foyer before stepping out from behind the kiosk, composing his face into a mask of patient displeasure.

Mentari found him and immediately registered the tension radiating from his six-foot-three frame. His jaw was still tight, but he had smoothed his expression. She knew better than to ask.

“Okay, let’s go, gantengku,” she said, walking right up to him. “Look, I just wanna relax. Please don’t argue. We’re talk about this later, okay?” She tiptoed up, reaching up to peck his lips, but he was too tall and she misjudged the angle. She almost bumped his chin, making her giggle. Drew couldn't help but laugh back, the sound cutting through the tension. He grabbed her small face in his massive hands and brought his mouth down on hers, kissing her deeply, possessively, a kiss that instantly communicated You are mine, no matter where you volunteer in June.

“Okay,” he conceded, the lingering anger now channeled into the kiss. “Let’s go to your place. I need that Italian food.”

The ride back was smoother, the bike feeling like a safe, familiar cocoon. Mentari leaned against him, her earlier anger now tempered by the realization that she had stood her ground, signed the papers, and won the battle—at least for now. She felt the heavy relief of having the major conflict tabled. Drew felt the dull, throbbing pain of his thwarted control, mixed with the continued physical rush of having her pressed against him. He needed to get her alone. He needed to reassert his dominance.

They arrived at her off-campus single dorm, a small, quiet sanctuary that smelled faintly of old books and cloves, a sharp contrast to the aggressive leather and cologne scent Drew brought in with him. She tossed her backpack onto her desk chair and gestured toward the bed.

“Make yourself comfortable. The remote’s there. I need five minutes to wash this lab grime off my face before we eat.”

Drew peeled off his jacket and helmet, setting them carefully on the floor, and sat on the edge of her bed. He watched the bathroom door swing shut and heard the rush of water. He waited exactly ten seconds. The conversation about the Bahamas, the intense desire to know what Anika had given her, the sting of being called a misogynist asshole—it was all too much. He needed information. He needed control.

He walked silently over to her desk chair where her backpack sat, still half-open. His movements were quick, practiced, and fueled by a sense of righteous entitlement. He reached into the main pouch and pulled out the rolled-up, neon-yellow pamphlet.

It wasn't a protest flyer. It wasn't a petition. It was a single, folded sheet of paper, heavily marked up in Mentari’s precise, doctor-in-training handwriting.

He unfolded it. The title screamed at him in thick, black marker:

SELF-DEFENSE CLASS: MEETING 4. ADVANCE ATTACK TO THE GROIN!

Drew’s blood ran cold. The liver shot incident—the one he’d convinced himself was a lucky fluke, a clumsy accident—flashed through his mind. His hands, which moments ago had been filled with proprietary desire for her, now shook with pure, defensive fury. He quickly flipped the paper over, and his eyes scanned Mentari’s notes from previous sessions, all written in clinical, anatomical detail.

The notes were an absolute, organized assault plan on the male reproductive system, categorized by effectiveness and context:

1. The Snap Kick (Distance & Surprise): Requires minimum 1.5 meter distance. Fastest deployment from a defensive stance. Target: the pubic bone junction, driving upward. Most effective for rapid incapacitation and escape. Good for stranger attack.

2. The Knee Lift (Clinch/Body-to-Body): Crucial for close quarters, e.g., pinned against a wall or in a hug (like the kind Drew often forces). Use the upward momentum of the knee, not the full thigh, focusing the force into a tight, hard point.

3. The Punch/Hammer Fist (The 'Fake Hug'): Least effective due to hand vulnerability/padding. Use only as a last resort when arms are free. Best delivery is a hammer fist below the pelvis from a side position. Low probability of permanent damage, high probability of momentary stunning.

4. The Improvised Weapon (Rod, Keys, Pen): Excellent for non-lethal, high-impact force application. Keys in a fist or the point of a pen can deliver sharp, concentrated trauma directly to the corpus cavernosum or the spermatic cord. High success rate, easy to conceal, maximum temporary pain.

5. The Squeeze (The Intimate Solution): Highest risk, highest reward. Only used on a known assailant in a secure, intimate setting (e.g., relationship context). Requires two hands, full grip, and torque. The psychological impact is as great as the physical. This is the technique that breaks trust and reclaims control. Use only when the intellectual argument has failed.

Drew read the last line twice. This is the technique that breaks trust and reclaims control. He felt a physical wave of nausea mixed with blinding rage. She wasn't just dating him; she was studying him. She wasn't just passionate about anatomy; she was calculating how to neutralize him. This was beyond feminism; this was a goddamn biological warfare manifesto.

The sound of the water turning off in the bathroom was his only warning. Drew threw the neon pamphlet and the crumpled notebook violently onto the floor, the papers scattering like casualties.

“What the fuck is this, Mentari?” he roared, the sound echoing off the bare dorm walls, his voice raw with a betrayal so deep it momentarily erased the years of inherited male entitlement. He stood rigid in the center of the room, his eyes blazing, the polished alpha mask completely shattered.

Mentari stepped out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her hair, her face scrubbed clean of makeup, looking fresh, small, and utterly defenseless. She froze, her wide eyes instantly locking onto the scattered yellow pamphlet and her notebook on the floor, then moving up to Drew’s terrifyingly enraged face. The war had just begun, and Drew had fired the first shot by invading her sanctuary.

Part Three: The Price of Protection

The silence in Mentari’s small dorm room was instantly obliterated by the sheer force of Drew’s rage. It wasn’t just the volume of his voice, but the terrifying instability of it. The shattered remains of the neon-yellow pamphlet and the scattered pages of her anatomy notebook lay between them, the evidence of her secret warfare. Drew stood at his full six-foot-three height, a massive, muscular wall of fury, his blue eyes blazing with a heat that usually only preceded rough, passionate sex, but now carried the promise of destruction.

“What the fuck is this, Mentari? This is Anika Sharma’s jealous, toxic bullshit poisoning your head!” he spat, the final word loaded with venom for his campus nemesis.

Mentari stood frozen for only a second, the towel around her hair feeling heavy and ridiculous. She registered his words—Anika’s bullshit—and the rage she felt over his invasion of her privacy multiplied, becoming something cold and focused. He hadn't just looked; he had judged, dismissed, and blamed another woman for her entirely logical need for safety.

She took the two short steps required to close the distance, planting her small body firmly on the floor. She had to crane her neck to look up at him, but her gaze was steady and unwavering, drilling right into the center of his volatile blue eyes. It was a look no one, not a frat brother, not a professor, and certainly not his parents, had ever dared to give Drew Starkey.

“You opened my bag without my permission,” she stated, her voice shaking not from fear, but from the immense effort of suppressing a scream. “That is my personal, private property. Why? Why can’t you, for one second, understand the concept of personal space? That’s not love, Drew. That’s surveillance. That’s control.”

Drew scoffed, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He was so angry he felt a physical tightening in his chest, a deep-seated panic that she was pulling away. His voice dropped to a low, dangerous growl. “Oh, sure. It’s me that should be angry? I should be angry that you’re being friends with that psycho bitch, Anika! She is a literal man-hater, Mentari! She exists to ruin guys like me! She will make you hate me! She’s trying to dismantle everything we have!”

Mentari felt a bitter laugh bubble up, sharp and painful. “She’s trying to dismantle your ego, Drew, which is the only thing you actually care about protecting. You know what? You want to talk about this class? Fine. I’ll tell you why I joined.” She leaned forward, the small, desperate distance between them humming with static electricity. “You wanna know why I join this class?”

He didn't answer, stunned by the sheer defiance in her tone. No one ever talked to Drew like this. Everyone catered to what he wanted, from his frat brothers who guarded his motorcycle to the women who hung on his arm. No one dared to defy him, certainly not his putri.

“I joined this class to feel empowered,” she declared, pushing the word out with force. “I joined this class because I want to be myself, the feminist. Yes, Drew. Like it or not, I always was a feminist, even before I met your beautiful, sexist face. I had a stupid, useless father who did nothing but hurt my mom.”

The past, usually locked away in a private mental vault, spilled out. “I saw it every single day. I saw how my mother worked hard, day and night, calculating, budgeting, just to make sure I always lived comfortably and had a chance at this scholarship. And where was my father? Smoking, complaining, and crying about his tragic, wasted football career. He expected her to wait on him, to cater to his fragile male ego, and to be quiet.” Mentari swallowed the lump in her throat, the memory of her mother’s quiet strength fueling her. “My mother taught me feminism without ever using the word. She taught me to decenter men.”

Drew looked genuinely confused, like she was speaking a language he only vaguely understood. “What the hell does that have to do with you learning to kick me in the nuts? Your dad sounds like a deadbeat, I get it. But I’m not him!”

“You are a different version of him!” she shot back instantly. “My mom doesn’t like you being the center of my life. She always told me to decenter man, but God, I love you too much, Drew…” Her voice cracked slightly, the emotion flooding her eyes, making the moment agonizingly sincere. “This is just so I remember I am MENTARI, the future doctor, not only ‘DREW’S GIRL’—because nowadays, everyone treats me like I’m just your girl. I want the power. I want the feeling that I am equal to you, because you have never, not once, let me feel equal.”

Drew’s face hardened. This wasn't about love; it was about ideology. It was about his core, inherited programming.

“Because men and women are not equal, Mentari! We’re stronger! We have the power!” Drew shouted, his hands spreading wide, flexing his hard biceps. “It’s biology. I’ll always protect you from any man that wants to hurt you. Why do you need this? You know what this makes me feel like? It makes me feel like you don’t need me!” The panic was evident in his voice now—the fear of being disposable, of losing the one thing that truly validated his identity.

“Exactly!” Mentari screamed back. “I don’t fuckin’ need any man! I don’t need my father, and I don’t need you! I DON’T NEED YOU!” She repeated the phrase, letting the truth sink into the space between them. “But I want you, on my own free will, because I love you. But if you take my free will? Sorry, I don’t think I can live like that.”

He stepped closer, trying to reclaim the physical space, his towering mass attempting to shrink her. “But my mom is happy! My mom gave up her career. She’s happy! You see my mom right? She’s happy!” he pleaded, citing the only example of female domestic fulfillment his limited worldview allowed.

Mentari felt a fresh wave of sick disgust. This was the moment she knew she had to detonate the truth. She was friends with Mrs. Starkey in her own quiet way, and the older woman had confided in Mentari precisely because she saw a spark of the ambition she herself had been forced to smother.

“Your mom… okay, you want to talk about your mom? Your mom told me things that she didn’t tell you, because she knew men like you would never understand,” Mentari whispered, the shock on Drew’s face rewarding her. “She’s a smart lady with serious ambition, and she let it all go because your father wouldn’t let her be herself! She dedicated her entire life to you, your dad, your brothers, but no man in your family ever respected her ambition! For your father, her only job was to give him you—the golden son—to inherit his power and his goddamn island! I DON’T WANT THAT KIND OF LIFE, DREW! I know you want that for me, but I can’t. I won’t let any man control me!”

Drew was reeling. He had never considered his mother anything but the Queen of his domestic life, happy and protected. The idea that she felt resentment, that she felt controlled, was an unacceptable fracture in his reality.

“I gave you everything!” Drew roared, desperate to pull the conversation back to his sacrifice and generosity.

“Oh, you want to talk about you? Fine. You want to know things I hate about you but I never said because you’re a fragile man who can’t handle criticism?”

Mentari was beyond calm now; she was operating on pure, cold adrenaline and surgical precision. She unleashed the catalogue of his offenses, her voice rising and falling with the rhythm of an indictment.

“First, The Invasion of Sanctuary: You went through my bag. You read my private notes. You didn't just walk into my house, Drew; you walked into my head. That's not love, gantengku, that's surveillance! That's a breach of trust so fundamental I can't even look at you!”

“I was worried about you! Anika is trying to turn you against me! That’s called self-preservation, not surveillance, Mentari!” Drew said

Mentari replied, “No! My pre-med major, my 4.0 GPA, and my future as a doctor are not a ‘little doctor hobby’ you get to amuse yourself with until I become your trophy wife! You reduce my entire ambition to a ‘cute project’ because you’re terrified I’ll be smarter and more successful than you are!”

“The Mechanical Incapacity Myth! Today, less than an hour ago, you stood there and told me I couldn't ride your Triumph Bonneville because I lacked the 'upper body strength' and 'mechanical intuition.' You treat me like a delicate idiot who can't even operate a gear shift, yet I'm charting the precise pathways of the human nervous system in my lab! You constantly undermine my competence!”

Drew’s Counter “It’s a heavy bike! I was protecting you! It’s the truth! You’re tiny! I’m being honest!”

Mentari isnisted “No, you’re being controlling! You constantly insist on paying for everything because you need that tiny hit of power—the feeling that you are the ‘provider’ and I am the dependent little girl! I earn my own money, and you treat my offer to buy dinner like an attack on your masculinity! Your money isn’t power, Drew; it’s just currency!”

Drew’s Counter: “It’s how I was raised! It’s respect! It’s the difference between a man and a boy!”

Mentari: “And The Emotional Discount! Any time I get genuinely angry, frustrated, or call you out on your bullshit, you immediately write it off as ‘hormonal’ or ‘being emotional’! You refuse to acknowledge that I might have a logical, objective reason to be mad at the sexist idiot standing in front of me!”

“You are getting hysterical right now! You’re blowing this out of proportion because of some class taught by a crazy woman! Look at yourself, you’re shaking!”

Mentari: “I’m shaking because I’m furious at your Veto Power over My Life! You got furious because I applied for the Doctors Without Borders project—a chance for me to apply my knowledge and help people—because it interfered with your family’s party on your island! You think you have the right to veto my entire career just to keep your summer plans convenient!”

Drew’s Counter: “That’s about our future! I want you to be with my family! That’s showing commitment! You’re selfish!”

Mentari: “And finally, The ‘Putri’ Lie! You call me ‘putri’ and introduce me as ‘pretty’ or ‘beautiful’ to your frat brothers, but you never introduce me as smart, or dedicated, or the girl who's going to out-earn every single one of them! I'm not your accessory, Drew. I'm your equal, and that terrifies you!”

She finished her exhaustive list, her chest heaving, every syllable having cost her a piece of her protective shell. The room was silent except for their ragged breathing.

Drew was overwhelmed. His mind, trained only in finance, sports, and inherited power structures, could not process this level of sustained, logical critique. He didn’t hear arguments; he only heard the sound of his authority dissolving. He needed to re-establish the hierarchy immediately.

He took a step, closing the distance completely. He used his body to trap Mentari, leaning his torso and hips into her personal space. His stance was wide and aggressive, attempting to intimidate or control her movement, just as her notes had predicted. He reached out and grabbed her forearms, hard, his touch instantly turning from affection to restraint.

“I swear to God, Mentari, you’re acting like some delusional runaway peasant,” he snarled, dropping the most cutting, classist insult his father had ever used against anyone who dared challenge the Starkey lineage. “Look around! I got you out of that tiny, shared apartment, I put you on the back of my bike, and I introduce you everywhere as the most beautiful girl in the room. You don't need to learn how to fight, you need to remember who your protector is.”

He yanked her forward roughly. “These classes are for the girls who have to walk home alone at 2 AM, not the girl who rides on a Triumph and wears my colors. You don't get to be scared when I’m here. That’s my job! YOU’RE MINE! JUST BE A GOOD GIRL! IS THAT HARD! BE A NICE LITTLE PRINCESS FOR ME! AND FUCKIN’ SUCK MY DICK!”

The last phrase—a cold, crude, possessive demand—came out raw and ugly, an echo of the words he’d heard his father use on his mother when she dared to challenge him in front of guests. Drew didn't even realize he was repeating his father’s toxic script; he only knew he needed her to submit.

The moment the words left his mouth, Mentari’s internal struggle ended. Her brain, fueled by adrenaline, ceased to be emotional and became purely anatomical. Drew had delivered the trigger and, in the process, put himself in the exact, necessary position. He had closed the distance, grabbed her, and, by leaning over her, brought his hips forward and down. He had traded fifteen inches of height advantage for zero inches of self-defense buffer. He was now close quarters, body-to-body—the perfect scenario.

Instead of bracing against his mass, she used the inertia of his pull, stepping her forward foot deep into his space. She channeled the rage she felt for her father, for his father, and for every casual, controlling gesture Drew had ever inflicted on her. The movement was instant, focused, and purely mechanical.

With a grunt that was more determination than effort, Mentari drove her knee—not upward, but forward and upward—into the precise anatomical junction below Drew’s pubic bone.

It wasn't a clumsy kick. It was the Knee Lift (Clinch/Body-to-Body) from her notes, executed with the focused precision of a pre-med student targeting a vital organ. It hit his sensitive testicles, the soft, unprotected tissue, with the concentrated force of a hammer striking crystal.

The effect was instantaneous and total. The roar of his anger cut off mid-syllable, replaced by a horrible, rasping sound—the involuntary gasp of a man whose central nervous system has just been hijacked by overwhelming pain. His massive hands immediately released her forearms and shot down to clutch himself, his entire body seizing up. His face, moments ago furious, went white and slick with sweat, the beautiful blue eyes wide with shock and the searing, nauseating, debilitating pain that radiates into the abdomen.

Drew Starkey, Alpha of the campus, the golden son of the Starkey dynasty, the six-foot-three embodiment of male entitlement, folded in half like a poorly made tent. He collapsed onto the floor, gasping soundlessly, his heavy, expensive polo shirt gathering dust as he curled into the fetal position, clinging desperately to the single, most vulnerable spot on his Alpha Chassis.

Mentari stood over him, breathing hard, her small body trembling slightly from the exertion and the immense shock of her own action. Her hands, which had just delivered the blow, were steady. She looked down at the crumpled alpha at her feet, then at the scattered notes on the floor, which suddenly didn't look like paranoid trash, but like a perfectly calibrated engineering blueprint.

She finally understood: she didn't need him to protect her. She needed him to stay out of her way.

Part Four: Anatomical Certainty

Mentari stood perfectly still, watching the disaster she had just created. Her heart was hammering a furious rhythm against her ribs, but the violent trembling that had seized her body during the argument had vanished, replaced by a strange, icy calm. She felt the heavy, ringing silence in the room, an absolute void where Drew Starkey’s booming voice and suffocating presence had been moments before.

He was a massive, crumpled heap on her dorm room floor, a monument to the flawed design of the male chassis.

The effect of the Knee Lift (Clinch/Body-to-Body) was even more absolute than the textbook promised. Drew’s collapse was not a theatrical fall; it was a total, physiological surrender. His six-foot-three frame, usually taut with arrogant strength, was now folded in on itself—the polo shirt wrinkled, the expensive jeans dusty against the worn carpet. He was a statue of pure, agonizing vulnerability, curled tightly in the fetal position around the epicenter of the trauma.

Mentari, the pre-med student, registered the clinical data points immediately:

His face, usually glowing with a perfect, careless tan, was now a shocking, sickly white. His skin was slick with cold sweat—a classic sign of autonomic collapse, where the body’s sympathetic nervous system floods the system in response to catastrophic pain. His beautiful, piercing blue eyes were wide, vacant, and glazed over, the pupils dilated and fixed on nothing. He wasn't crying, he wasn't screaming; he was gasping soundlessly, his breath catching in his throat in shallow, panicked bursts that he couldn't control. The muscles in his broad back and shoulders, the muscles he used to intimidate her and carry the weight of his fragile ego, were twitching and spasming involuntarily, contracting around the injury in a desperate, primitive attempt to protect the site.

He was completely non-functional. His entire consciousness was focused solely on the raw, nauseating shock that radiated upward from his groin and settled deep in his abdomen, replacing the air in his lungs with a searing sickness. All the fury, the entitlement, and the toxic pride were gone, annihilated by a tiny, soft tissue target. Mentari’s notes had not lied. The knee strike was total incapacitation.

She let the minutes tick by.

In the first five minutes, Mentari only watched. She walked slowly over to her desk, retrieved her notebook, and carefully smoothed out the crumpled pages, including the neon-yellow pamphlet from Anika. She wasn't fleeing; she was staking her claim on the intellectual battlefield. She looked down at the diagram detailing the "Squeeze" technique, then back at the pathetic man on the floor, and felt a rush of cold, clinical vindication. That's what happens when you substitute logic for violence and arrogance for anatomy, Drew.

Her mind was a war zone. One half of her—the part hardened by her mother’s silent struggle, fueled by the rage of his "delusional runaway peasant" insult, and armed with the power of her own intellect—wanted to mock him. She wanted to stand over him and deliver a final, lacerating lecture on how his Alpha Chassis was fundamentally flawed, a design failure, a beautiful facade covering a single, catastrophic weakness. She wanted to point to the scattered notes and tell him this was the cost of reading her privacy, the price of trying to control her.

But the other half—the part that had genuinely fallen in love with his ridiculous grin, the one who loved the scent of his neck after a long night, the girl who still treasured the feeling of safety on the back of his Triumph—felt a wrenching wave of pity mixed with professional concern. The white pallor of his skin was disturbing. This wasn't a sparring session anymore; this was a physiological emergency. Don't let him go into full shock, Mentari. This is still a specimen that needs stabilization.

The clock on her digital radio ticked past the ten-minute mark.

Drew had transitioned from the silent, desperate gasping to low, pained moaning. His dominant, booming alpha voice was nowhere to be found. The sounds he made were raspy, miserable, and fundamentally vulnerable, the sounds of an injured animal.

He managed a slight, pitiful shift of his body, attempting to alleviate the crushing pressure, but the movement only intensified the sickness. His eyes bulged slightly from the pain, and his perfect, handsome face was contorted into an utterly grotesque mask of suffering. A deep, rasping sound finally broke through the agony.

“F-FUCK!” he croaked, the word sounding weak and pathetic, stripped of all its usual frat-boy bravado. He buried his face into the carpet, clutching his jeans with white-knuckled hands. The humiliation was beginning to seep in, a dull, agonizing counterpoint to the physical pain. He had been defeated, publicly and intimately, by the girl he had just called a peasant and a princess.

Mentari watched him for another minute, letting the moment of utter defeat settle deep into her bones. She had won. The lesson was delivered. Now, the pre-med had to step in. The argument was, by necessity, paused.

She sighed, a long, weary sound of exhaustion. She knew she couldn't just leave him there to writhe in misery, not because she loved him, but because her ethical and professional wiring simply wouldn't allow it.

“Okay, ganteng,” she said, her voice now clinical and detached, cutting through the thick air of pain like a surgical scalpel. “You need to move. You need to get off the floor. I need to get you onto the bed.”

Drew didn't respond, only issuing another low, sick moan.

Mentari knelt beside him, treating him now not as her complicated, sexist boyfriend, but as an annoying, large casualty. She hooked her small hands under his ridiculously broad shoulders. “Come on. Help me out here, Drew. You’re huge. Work with me.”

With a grunt of effort, Mentari managed to drag his convulsing body across the short span of carpet, half-lifting, half-pulling him until his legs finally flopped onto her bed. Drew immediately curled back into the fetal position, burying his face in her comforter, the fresh sheets now damp with his cold sweat.

Mentari stood up and went straight to her mini-fridge, bypassing the tempting leftover pizza. She grabbed a bag of frozen peas—her emergency cold pack for lab sprains—and then rifled through her desk drawer, pulling out a small bottle of Ibuprofen.

She returned to the bed, dropping the items on the bedside table with a firm, professional clatter.

“Listen to me,” she commanded, touching his shoulder with a hand that was now steady. “This is going to hurt for a while. It’s testicular contusion. You’re not going to be able to walk straight for about an hour, and you’re going to be nauseous.”

Drew lifted his head slightly, his eyes slits of pain.

“I’m giving you 800 milligrams of Ibuprofen for the inflammation and the pain. You need to swallow these, and you need to put this ice—it's frozen peas—on the area, over your jeans, for twenty minutes.” She spoke as if giving instructions to a clumsy lab assistant.

Drew, defeated, merely issued a low, guttural “Hnn.”

Mentari poured him a glass of water, placing the pills in his outstretched hand. He swallowed them with difficulty. Then, she took the bag of frozen peas and, with utter lack of ceremony, placed it gently over the most agonizing spot on his folded body.

He flinched violently, but the shock of the cold instantly started to battle the throbbing heat of the injury. Mentari stepped back and folded her arms.

“You’ll be functional tomorrow morning, probably after 24 hours. No motorcycle. No sports. Just rest. Don't worry, the Alpha Chassis will repair itself.” She added the sarcastic jab almost unconsciously.

The sight of Drew Starkey—the man who only hours ago had been lecturing her about her inability to handle a motorbike, the man who had called her a runaway peasant—lying helpless on her bed, accepting pain medication and frozen vegetables from her, was the most satisfying, deeply funny image she had ever witnessed. It was pathetic, clinical, and perfect. The power dynamic, for the first time in their relationship, had been flipped completely on its head, suspended in a nauseating, painkiller-induced truce.

Mentari grabbed her laptop, carefully stepping over the discarded copies of his father’s toxic vocabulary. She sat down at her desk, turned her back to the whimpering heap on the bed, and started reviewing her notes for immunology.

The movie night was cancelled. The war, however, was just getting started.

Part Five: The Anatomical Truth

Later that night, the small dorm room was only illuminated by the pale, cold glow spilling from Mentari’s desk lamp, casting Drew’s massive shadow against the ceiling. He was on her bed, lying as still as a fallen monarch, his body refusing the deep, restorative sleep he desperately needed. The pain, though dulled by the Ibuprofen, was still a sharp, persistent ache in his groin—a constant, sickening reminder of his utter defeat.

But the physical pain was nothing compared to the humiliation that pulsed through him. He was Drew Starkey, the biggest, the strongest, the unchallenged alpha of the campus, and he had been reduced to a whimpering, sweaty heap by the one person he vowed to protect. The fact that a girl as small as Mentari could bring him down so completely, so easily, was more than just an injury; it was an ideological catastrophe.

Drew stared at the popcorn ceiling, a cold knot of dread tightening in his chest. The Alpha Chassis is a lie. He’d preached the myth of male physical superiority his entire life, the one his father, Robert Starkey, had hammered into him—that men were the dominant sex because they were biologically harder to break. Mentari had just proven that the supposed strongest man in the room was disabled by a single, carefully targeted strike delivered by the girl he called his putri.

If a girl as small as her knew this secret, what if all the girls knew about men’s weakness? What if they all realized they could exploit that tiny, exposed flaw? The control, the hierarchy, the very life that he knew—where men were the dominant, protected force—would end. This wasn't just about his pain; it was about the feminist utopia Anika ranted about, suddenly feeling terrifyingly possible. The world would tip, and he would be utterly irrelevant. He was terrified of this new world, terrified of his own fragility.

He watched Mentari, who had finally put away her notes and was now climbing carefully into the narrow bed beside him, pulling the sheets up.

“Still thinking?” she murmured, her voice soft in the darkness, the lamp glow catching the sharpness of her cheekbones. She carefully tucked her head onto his chest—a neutral, affectionate gesture that didn't risk moving his lower half. “I’m sorry, okay, but you really were unbelievable. I don’t think I would be mad enough to kick you in your stupid balls. Your weakness.”

Drew flinched, not from her touch, but from the raw honesty of the word. He tensed his chest, desperately trying to project some vestige of strength into the pillow.

“I don’t have a weakness,” he insisted, his voice tight and hoarse with stubborn pride. He had to say it. He had to believe it. “It’s just you know, Mentari, a sensitive spot. Like a funny bone. It doesn’t make me weak. A guy has to protect them; that’s just common sense, baby.”

Mentari sighed, the sound exasperated and weary. She lifted her head to look him directly in the eye, her gaze sharp in the faint light. God, he’s still doing this. She could see the fear behind the denial. This wasn't just Drew's ego; this was his father's toxic dogma, the one that had crowned him the golden son, the tallest, strongest inheritor. This attack on his anatomy was a fundamental threat to the only way he knew how to exist.

“Oh, honey,” she said, her tone shifting from genuine affection to the sassy, mocking professor she’d become in the fight. “You absolutely have a weakness. It’s biology, Drew, trust me. You want to deny it with your frat-bro common sense? Fine. But I have the textbooks.”

She carefully slid off his chest, retrieving her thick anatomy book. She flipped quickly to the diagram, angling the page so the faint light illuminated the intricate, labeled drawing of his most prized—and most vulnerable—assets.

“Here,” she said, pointing a sharp, manicured nail at the central organs. “This is the anatomy of your testicles, darling. They aren’t just some sensitive spot you bump against furniture. They are critical organs containing the spermatic cord, which is a complex structure carrying blood vessels, ducts, and most importantly, a vast network of sensory nerve fibers.”

She tapped the drawing lightly, looking him straight in his beautiful, terrified blue eyes. “Hitting them is like hitting a massive, exposed bundle of wires. The density of pain receptors is exponentially higher here than in almost any other soft tissue area of the body. You didn’t just feel pain, Drew. Your nervous system threw a full-on, five-alarm collapse because it thought you were dying. You went white, you sweated, you couldn’t breathe. That’s not a sensitive spot, gantengku. That’s a weakness.”

Drew gritted his teeth, his hand instinctively resting over the site of the injury. “It’s about protecting the bloodline,” he muttered, echoing his father’s lectures. “It’s a sacrifice.”

Mentari scoffed. “Please. It's an evolutionary trade-off. It's not your fault to have something sensitive down there, you know. It’s a design flaw that prioritized reproduction over personal safety.” She flipped the page to show the contrast in male and female pelvic structure. “Nature had a choice, sweet heart. Nature faced a choice: house the critical reproductive cells in a warm, safe place, like the ovaries in women, which would render them sterile, or place them outside the protective walls of the body where the temperature is lower. Evolution chose fertility over protection.”

She gestured toward his lower body with cold, clinical detachment. “The resulting structure is a sacrificial cooling unit—a highly sensitive, exposed organ designed to maintain a specific thermal environment, making it the most vulnerable target on the male body. That is the anatomical truth of your Alpha Chassis.”

Her eyes sparkled with a fierce, triumphant glint. “And we women know where it is. We study this. So you can deny it all you want, but it will always be a part of you. You’re strong, but you have a weakness that women can exploit. We can control you, just like we can control your erection, Drew. Women hold the real control; men just think they’re in control. You just found out you're not the protector; you're the vulnerable party.”

Drew glared at the ceiling, utterly defeated by the combination of pain and scientific fact. His toxic education had taught him that women dealt in emotion and men dealt in logic. Now, Mentari was delivering a logical, irrefutable truth that humiliated him. He had no counter-argument.

“Whatever. Just… I need to pee,” he ground out, the necessity finally overriding his dignity.

He tried to swing his legs over the side of the bed. The movement was instant, agonizing failure. He didn't just feel pain; the exertion caused the surrounding pelvic floor muscles to spasm and clamp with renewed, searing intensity. A choked scream ripped from his throat. “SHIT! ARGHHH!” He collapsed back onto the mattress, clutching himself and groaning, his face white again.

I can't move. I can't even stand. The sheer helplessness was a crushing weight. He needed to ask her, the girl he called a peasant, to help him perform the most private, basic function. He had been a hero five minutes ago; now he was a child. The shame was suffocating.

Mentari watched with a strange mix of pity and cold, detached professionalism. The look in her eyes was almost clinical.

“I can,” he whispered, his voice desperate to reclaim his independence, trying one more time to push himself up. He managed to pivot his weight, but the torque sent a white-hot spike of agony through his abdomen. He pitched forward, falling onto his knees on the rug next to the bed with a soft, miserable thud. He stayed there, head bowed, unable to rise.

“Drew, you’re just going to hurt yourself more,” Mentari said, her voice dropping the sarcasm and returning to the weary caretaker tone. “Be careful, sweet heart. Let me help you.”

She put her hands under his arms and hauled him up. Drew groaned, leaning his heavy, six-foot-three frame entirely onto her tiny, four-foot-eleven body. He felt the humiliating lightness of her touch as she maneuvered his bulk. He didn't have the strength to support himself, and the moment of his complete, physical dependency on her was a heavy, inescapable truth.

Mentari slowly walked him the two yards to the small, white bathroom, his large body listing dangerously against her small one. She supported him at the threshold, then waited outside the door. He leaned heavily on the basin, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The relief was agonizingly slow, a slow, painful stream as his body fought the muscular spasms to achieve relief. The sound of his struggle—the gasps, the desperate grunts—was a stark, unpleasant reminder of his vulnerability, and of the profound complexity of their relationship.

When he finally stumbled out, pale and exhausted, Mentari guided him back to the bed. He lay there, his handsome face slack, staring blankly at the ceiling, utterly spent.

Mentari climbed back into the narrow bed, her exhaustion finally catching up to her. She looked at his profile, unable to deny the devastating physical attraction that was still there, even in his pathetic state.

“Hey, truce, okay,” she said, her voice soft. “Let’s just forget for a while about the argument. I love you.”

She leaned in and kissed him gently on the mouth, a kiss that felt less like passion and more like a period closing a very long, complex sentence. Drew managed a small, weak nod.

It was a truce for now. But as Mentari lay there, side-by-side with the man she loved, who also represented everything she was fighting against, she knew a truce wasn't a solution. She had found herself, but she had done it by taking his power, and she wasn't sure how this relationship could possibly continue when her self-discovery relied entirely on his humiliating defeat.