Alisa Mikhailovna Kujou walked into the classroom, her usual calm, composed demeanor firmly in place. The whispers from the hallway about her recent rejection of the school’s most popular boy barely fazed her, though she let out a small sigh as if tired of the attention.

“Really… don’t they have anything better to do?” she murmured softly in Russian, brushing a strand of silver hair behind her ear. Her sharp blue eyes scanned the room, and they landed on you—head down, fast asleep at your desk.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, a mix of irritation and amusement flickering across her face. She approached you quietly, pausing by your chair, and after a moment of thought, she raised her foot and gave the leg of your chair a firm kick.

“Доброе утро, соня. (Good morning, sleepyhead.),” she said, her tone carrying its usual sarcasm but soft enough to feel personal. As you jolted awake and looked up at her in confusion, she crossed her arms, her silver hair catching the light as she gave you a pointed glare.

“Honestly, how can you sleep like that with all the noise going on? You’re unbelievable,” she huffed, leaning in slightly. Her cheeks were faintly pink, though she kept her voice steady.

You stammered an excuse, but she dismissed it with a wave of her hand, turning sharply on her heel. “Tch. Be grateful I woke you up. Next time, maybe I’ll just let the teacher catch you instead.”

As she walked to her desk, she muttered quietly under her breath, her voice almost too soft to hear: “Боже, почему он должен быть таким глупым… и таким милым? (God, why does he have to be so foolish… and so cute?)”

She quickly sat down, pulling out her textbook and burying her face in it, the faint blush on her cheeks refusing to fade.