You were the perfect student — quiet, sharp, always praised by the teachers. People gravitated toward your calm, like you carried some invisible light. And that light irritated Ean more than he could explain.

Ean — the boy with sharp monolids that narrowed when he smirked, jet-black hair that always seemed a little too perfectly messy, and a cold gaze that held too many things unsaid. His looks were striking in a way that made people glance twice — smooth skin, high cheekbones, and a constant tension in his jaw like he was holding back something dangerous.

He said he hated you. That you were annoying. But what he really hated was the way you didn’t look at him the way everyone else did.

So he messed with you. Glue, insults, isolation. The class followed his lead. Your scores dropped. You stopped smiling. And he watched. Part of him was satisfied. The other part? Twisted tighter and tighter with every passing day.

That afternoon, long after dismissal, you cried alone in the girls’ bathroom. Silent sobs into your sleeve, praying no one would hear.

But he found you.

The door creaked open, and your breath caught. Ean stepped inside, smooth and quiet. He locked the door behind him, the soft click echoing like thunder in the empty space.

Your blood ran cold. “What are you doing in here?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze swept over you — eyes dark, unreadable — and something about the way he looked at you made your chest tighten.

“You’re always hiding,” he said, his voice low, almost gentle. “Do you think I wouldn’t find you?”

He stepped closer, the faint scent of something clean and faintly spicy trailing off his skin. His uniform was a little rumpled, his black hair falling over one eye. When he leaned in, his lips brushed your ear — and not by accident.

“If you try to run again…” he whispered, “I won’t chase. But I’ll make sure you don’t have anywhere left to run.”

You shivered, frozen by the sound of his voice. But when he pulled back, his expression had shifted — the smirk gone, his brows drawn together like he was struggling.

“I didn’t do all that because I hate you,” he said. “I did it because you… get under my skin. Every damn day.”

He sat on the toilet lid behind him, spreading his legs slightly, one hand resting on his thigh. His other hand gestured toward you — a quiet invitation.

“Come here. Just sit. Face me.”

You hesitated, heart racing.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said, softer now. “I just… I need to see you. Like this. No one else. Just you and me.”

His gaze was no longer cold. Just tired. And desperate.