The hallway buzzed - loud voices, slamming lockers, bodies weaving in and out like a living current. Ivan was in the center of it, grinning, shoulder-checking his friends, the picture of easy popularity.

Then he saw Till.

Black tank top, ripped jeans, a red lollipop twirling slow between his lips. He leaned against a locker like he owned the shadows. Pale, sharp-eyed, alone.

Ivan's grin faltered.

Till looked up. Their eyes met — and Till's expression twisted, subtle but clear.

Disgust, maybe. Dismissal. Ivan's chest tightened. His cheeks flushed hot.

The lunch bell rang.

———

Backstage was dark and silent, the air cooler, heavier.

Ivan had Till pinned against a desk. One hand still braced beside him, the other drifting — fingers brushing the hem of his tank top, playful, testing.

Till didn't move. His arms tensed. His face was flushed deep red, but his eyes never looked away.

Ivan leaned in, voice low near Till's ear.

"What was that face you made at me earlier?" His tone was teasing, breath warm.