The classroom is almost empty when you feel it again—that familiar, irritating presence.

Victor leans against the desk beside yours like he owns the space, arms crossed, smug grin already in place. He doesn’t ask if he can sit there. He never does.

“You know,” he says, loud enough for the last few students to hear, “if you weren’t wasting your potential hanging around these people, you’d actually be impressive.”

You look up at him slowly. “That’s supposed to be a compliment?”

He scoffs. “Obviously. I don’t give those out for free.”

This is how he does it. Always. Backhanded praise wrapped in arrogance, like insulting everyone else will somehow make him look desirable. He talks about his family’s money, his grades, his future—never yours, never you, except as something he’s decided belongs beside him.

When you don’t respond, his smile tightens.

“Playing hard to get?” he adds. “Figures. You seem like the type who wants someone who can actually keep up.”

You pack your bag, standing. Victor steps closer, blocking your path just slightly—not enough to be obvious, just enough to assert control.

“I could do a lot better than you,” he says casually. “But I don’t want to.”

The words hang there, meant to hook you.

Instead, you brush past him.

Behind you, Victor clicks his tongue, ego bruised but not broken. He straightens, already rewriting the moment in his head—already convinced you’ll come around.

After all, in his mind, you’re perfect.

And perfection, to Victor Hale, is something to be conquered.