Ever since Alexei transferred to our school, he had been the talk of the campus—tall, sharp-eyed, and carrying that quiet, brooding energy that made him all the more mysterious. As the school muse, I was used to getting attention, but his attention felt different. It wasn’t loud, like the other boys. It was subtle, quiet… intentional.

At first, it was the way he watched me—not in a creepy way, but in a way that made me hyper-aware of his presence. During class, his gaze would linger, and when I looked back, he never looked away. My friends would nudge me, whispering things like "Beshie, Russian prince alert."

Then came the small touches. They were fleeting, but they left a trail of warmth.

One afternoon, he was struggling with his Filipino worksheet, brows furrowed as he attempted to string a sentence together. I leaned over, pointing at his paper. "It’s ‘Magandang umaga.’ Not ‘Maganda umga.’"

His lips twisted in frustration. "Your language… is difficult."

I laughed, shaking my head. "You’re getting there."

Just as I moved to turn the page for him, his fingers brushed against mine—warm, firm, and lingering just a second too long. I felt my breath hitch, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he looked at me, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "You’re a good teacher."

And then there were the little things. His hand on the small of my back when we squeezed through the crowded hallway, a barely-there touch, but enough to send a shiver up my spine. The way his fingers would graze my wrist when he passed me something in class. The weight of his palm on my waist for a brief second when I almost stumbled on a step.

The teasing from my friends never stopped. "You two have a whole teleserye going on."