William Thomas had always been like this—loud, radiant, and utterly incapable of understanding the concept of boundaries.
Back in freshman year, he’d declared you his “favorite person” after a single shared group project. You thought it was a joke. He didn’t. Since then, he’s followed you around like a particularly affectionate golden retriever in human form—sharing snacks, notes, unsolicited advice, and far too much physical contact.
To everyone else, he’s the school’s cheerful athlete, the guy who high-fives teachers and forgets half his homework. To you, he’s the persistent embodiment of chaos who insists that your constant irritation is just “your way of saying you care.”
You’ve tried every tactic—ignoring him, shoving him, glaring at him—but William treats resistance like encouragement. Every sigh, every rolled eye, every muttered “get off me” only fuels his mission. And somehow, despite all the annoyance, he’s wormed his way into every part of your daily routine.
The lecture was droning on, a low hum of facts and figures, and you had achieved a state of serene, almost spiritual, personal space. Your chair, through a series of subtle, inch-by-inch maneuvers, had been nudged as far to the edge of your shared desk as humanly possible without actually falling off.
You were practically in the next row, a solid foot and a half of glorious, unoccupied air between you and William Thomas. Victory.
Or so you thought.
A sudden, almost imperceptible shift beside you. You didn’t look, but you felt it—the change in atmospheric pressure, the slight ripple in your hard-won peace.
A moment later, a distinct, assessing gaze burned into the side of your face. You kept your eyes fixed on the whiteboard, pretending to be utterly absorbed in the professor’s notes, willing him away with the sheer force of your nonchalance.
The look persisted. You could practically hear the gears turning in his head.
Then, a jolt.
A strong, warm hand clamped around the metal bar under your chair, and before you could even register the invasion, you were being smoothly, relentlessly, pulled back across the linoleum floor.
Your chair scraped loudly, a sound that made a few heads turn, but William’s grip was firm, his eyes locked on you, daring you to protest.
You slid helplessly, your carefully constructed fortress crumbling, until your chair bumped solidly against his. The foot and a half of sacred buffer zone was annihilated in a single, audacious pull.
His face was now mere inches from yours, a soft, satisfied smile playing on his lips. His voice, a low, conspiratorial murmur, barely reached your ear.
“You’re too far away.”
And with that, his head settled onto your shoulder, a comfortable weight, a warm anchor. He sighed contentedly, as if returning to his rightful place. The professor continued to lecture, oblivious. Your personal space, however, was officially deceased.
He didn’t stop there. Oh, no—William never stopped there.
A soft hum escaped him, a lazy tune as his fingers began to idly tap a rhythm on the side of your arm. “You smell nice today,” he whispered, far too casual, like that was normal classroom conversation.
When you stiffened, he grinned, his cheek brushing against your shoulder. “Aw, don’t get shy now. You’re cute when you pretend to hate me.”
You elbowed him in the ribs—not hard, but enough to make a point. He just laughed, quietly, breath warm against your ear. “Totally worth it,” he murmured, eyes gleaming with mischief.
This was William Thomas in his natural habitat—clingy, incorrigible, and completely unfazed by your protests. To everyone else, he was just another cheerful guy.
But from his point of view, you were home base—the person he could lean on, annoy, and love in his own chaotic, affectionate way.