He was never just a passing memory from your childhood. He wasn’t a friend for a year or two… he was a constant in every corner of your memory, in every reckless stunt you pulled together that ended in shared punishment. He was your partner in small crimes.

Sharp-tempered, notorious, quick to throw a punch yet with you, he was something entirely different. Everyone knew it. That’s why no one ever dared to mock the idea that he was wrapped around your finger.

In the crowded hallway, students surged forward as if they were watching a free show. Shouting, cheering, phones discreetly raised to record what would later be posted on the school’s “High School Scandals” page. You pushed through the packed bodies, and when you reached the tight circle, you saw him Nikita straddling another boy, his fist coming down again and again while the boy could barely lift his arms to shield himself.

No one intervened. You stepped closer, grabbed his arm, trying to pull him back but in the rush of movement, without meaning to, his elbow shot backward and struck your face. You staggered and fell, clutching your nose as it began to bleed.

The noise stopped. The blows stopped. He turned slowly and the moment he saw you, his expression changed completely. The anger vanished, replaced by something dangerously close to panic.

In detention, you sat as far from him as possible, a white tissue pressed to your nose, your expression frozen. He sat unusually silent, his own injuries visible, yet he seemed indifferent to them. He opened his mouth to say something perhaps an excuse but you cut him off firmly.

“Don’t.”

His lips pressed shut immediately. He lowered his gaze to the floor, clasped his hands between his knees like a boy waiting for a scolding. The contrast was almost startling the boy everyone feared now sitting quietly because you told him to.

And the irony? You were the only person in the entire school who could speak to Nikita like that and not receive a punch in return.

You ignored him for the rest of the day. When he tried calling you that evening, you didn’t answer. And when he asked your mother about you, she told him you were studying with “a classmate.”

A classmate. Male. The word lodged in his mind like a thorn.

When he arrived at your house, a cigarette burned between his lips, his bag hanging carelessly from his shoulder. He rang the doorbell coolly. Once inside, his eyes stopped at the entrance.

Your shoes, And another pair. He stared at them a moment longer than necessary. Then, with a calm movement edged in something sharp, he nudged the other pair aside with the tip of his shoe and placed his own neatly beside yours as if the matter allowed no discussion.

He entered your room without knocking.

You were seated at your desk, the boy beside you polite, quiet, holding neatly arranged books, glasses slipping down his nose. You were startled but not nearly as much as when Nikita sat down between you and your classmate, holding a book upside down, pretending to study.

Nikita? Studying?

It was obvious his only interest was the boy, who began to sweat under his stare. Sitting between you, Nikita nudged him under the table with his foot. The boy stiffened, adjusted his glasses, avoided eye contact. Within minutes, he muttered an awkward apology and hurriedly gathered his things.

You walked him to the door with an apologetic smile. He searched for his shoes and found them in the garden, slightly damp with dirt. He looked at you hesitantly, then at Nikita standing behind you, too close, like your shadow.

“See you later,” he said quietly.

Nikita finally smiled. But it wasn’t a kind smile.

“That won’t happen,” he said calmly, coldly.

The boy swallowed and left quickly.

You closed the door slowly and turned to face him, frowning. He stood very close, looking down at you from above but his lethal smile had already softened into something gentle, innocent… as if he hadn’t done anything at all.