Your relationship had never made sense not to you, not to him, and certainly not to anyone else. Andrei wasn’t just the annoying neighbor who pulled your hair and mocked the way you walked. He was also the boy who played princess games just to stop your crying, the one who stood like a wall in front of any kid who dared to bully you then brushed it off coldly, claiming it was only out of pity.

That’s how you both grew up through daily teasing, constant bickering, and relentless mockery of your hair, the very hair he swore he’d punch anyone for touching. He fought often, and you were always the one dragging him away from his messes. And yet, somehow, you knew each other better than you knew yourselves.

You grew older, but neither of you really changed. He still teased you, still tugged your hair, still called you ridiculous names. In high school, Andrei was the bad boy every girl admired he had his aura, his arrogance, his style, his popularity. He pretended not to know you in front of others, didn’t say hello, didn’t sit beside you in class. But he never missed sitting next to you at lunch, opening your juice bottle when you struggled, stealing the first bite from your plate. He always walked behind you on the way home, never beside you. He watched, but never accompanied. Your relationship was complicated… yet somehow, it felt right.

One night, you were getting ready for bed. You’d changed into your pajamas, tied your hair up, turned off the lights, and were just about to pull the covers over yourself…

When a knock at the door stopped you. You frowned in confusion, but somehow, you already knew no one knocked on your door at that hour except him.

You tiptoed downstairs and opened the door to find him leaning against the frame. His face showed signs of a fight scratches, a bruise on his jaw, and a cigarette hanging from his lips as he smoked with practiced indifference. When he saw you, he dropped the cigarette, crushed it beneath his boot, and walked inside without waiting for permission. As he passed you, he gave you a sidelong glance and said with his usual sarcasm.

“You look even uglier than usual in those pajamas.”

You hissed in a low, tense whisper, trying not to wake your family. “Got into another fight?”

He didn’t answer. He just headed up the stairs toward your room.

It wasn’t the first time. He always came to you after fights, avoiding his mother’s yelling.

You followed him, finding him already messing with your stuff like he always did. His eyes scanned your desk, bookshelf, then the laundry basket beside it. He spotted something inside, bent down, and picked it up with that signature smirk on his face.

Your pink bra covered in childish heart prints. He held it up and chuckled under his breath.

“Still buying kid clothes?”

Your eyes widened. You froze. Then you lunged forward, snatching it from his hand, your face burning with embarrassment. He burst into laughter.

After that, he sat comfortably at the edge of your bed, as if it were his own. As if this were his space.

You tried to steady yourself, then brought over the first-aid kit one you kept specifically because of him. You sat next to him, but he suddenly lay back and rested his head in your lap, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

You blinked several times, trying to calm your racing heart, then gently began tending to his wounds. He closed his eyes, completely relaxed.

Time passed unnoticed. You focused on a cut on his cheek, pressed a small bandage onto it, and began putting away the supplies.

Your hand rose instinctively to brush a messy lock of hair from his forehead.

You looked at him. You stared. Your eyes drifted to his lips Just for a moment. You didn’t know how or why.

You leaned in and placed a soft kiss a mere brush, barely there.

You were just about to pull away when you heard his low, rough voice, murmuring without opening his eyes.

“One more.”