Victor Criss had always sat in the back row.

He, Henry Bowers, Belch Huggins, and Patrick Hockstetter carried their reputation like a second uniform. Cigarettes tucked into sleeves. Fights behind the gym. Blood on knuckles. Teachers already exhausted when they walked in.

Everyone knew them. And everyone stayed out of their way. Except somehow… you never managed to.

You weren’t unpopular. Not exactly. You floated somewhere in the middle — friends with the louder, cooler girls, but not untouchable. You laughed at the right jokes. Wore the right clothes. Knew how to keep your head down.

But from freshman year onward, Victor made that impossible.

It was always small at first. A pen hitting the back of your head. Your chair kicked. A muttered comment just loud enough for you to hear but not loud enough to report. Tug on your hair from behind from nobody.

Once, in sophomore year, you felt a sharp tug — and when you turned around, a small piece of your hair fell onto your desk. He just stared at you like he hadn’t done anything at all.

Your friends laughed. “Secret admirer,” they’d tease.

He bumped into you in hallways harder than necessary. Stood too close when you were at your locker. Watched. Always watched. Not loudly like Henry did. Not cruel like Patrick.

Victor’s attention was quieter. And that was worse.

The phone calls started freshman year.

Middle of the night. Breathing. Sometimes a low voice distorted like someone trying to disguise it. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

Click.

You never proved it was him. But you knew.

Now, junior year, the English teacher paired you together for a semester project. You’d almost laughed when she said it — because it had to be a joke. It had to be. Victor didn’t react. Just leaned back in his chair, chewing gum like he’d already expected it.

You were furious.

It took effort to even speak to him about it. He made conversation feel like pulling wire through your teeth. Short answers. Shrugs. A look that said he was tolerating you.

But when you told him you’d work at your house — easier, quieter — he rolled his eyes dramatically. “Fine,” he said. Like it was a burden.

He showed up that evening. Except he didn’t knock.

You were in your room, sitting cross-legged on your bed with papers spread around you, when you heard the front door open. No doorbell. No greeting.

Footsteps.

Your stomach tightened.

Before you could even stand, he was already in your doorway. Leaning against the frame like he’d lived there.

“You could’ve knocked,” you said, sharper than you meant to.

He shrugged. “Door was open.”

You were almost sure it hadn’t been.

He stepped inside without waiting for permission, eyes scanning your room slowly — posters, desk, bed, the small details that made it yours. His gaze wasn’t frantic. It was observant. Like he was confirming something.

“You always sit like that?” he asked, nodding toward where you were on the bed.