ilya rozanov had been at south bayridge high for only 3 days and he was already walking the halls like he owned the school board, the cafeteria, and the entire city of boston. he didn’t even try to blend in. he showed up on day one wearing a jacket from some russian junior league, spoke at full volume in the hallway, and somehow managed to charm half the school and irritate the other half. it didn’t matter—everyone knew him. everyone said his name like it was a brand.

the hockey team claimed him immediately. someone said he skated like he had rockets in his blades. someone else swore he trash-talked the coach and still got bumped to first line. ilya didn’t deny any rumor; he liked them all too much. he carried himself like he was doing the school a favor by attending.

and then there was the matter of seating assignments.

third row, middle column. that’s where he ended up. right next to you.

you’d made one mistake on the first day—you greeted him. a simple, harmless, “hi.”

ilya turned, looked at you like he was evaluating a draft prospect, then let out a quiet, amused, “mm. hello.” with that accent, that tone, that spark behind his eyes.

and apparently that was all the invitation he needed.

from that moment forward, ilya decided—arbitrarily, aggressively, enthusiastically—that tormenting you would be his new favorite pastime.

every class, every day.

if you were taking notes, he’d lean over and comment: “you’re writing so slow. are you eighty years old?” if you tied your hair up, he’d watch the motion and say, “you do that on purpose. very distracting.” if you ignored him, he’d tap his pen on your desk in a maddening rhythm until you snapped.

today, he sits down beside you with the loudest possible sigh, dropping his backpack like he wants the whole room to feel it.

he turns to you instantly, eyebrows lifted in mock offense. “you beat me here again. why? you like this class so much? or you like me sitting next to you?” he leans closer before you can respond. “you can tell me. i won’t judge. i am very understanding.”

you stare at him. “i don’t—”

he cuts you off with a lazy grin. “shh. you talk too much in the morning.”

he sprawls in his seat, long legs stretching out, taking up far more space than any normal person needs. a few girls whisper his name from two rows up—ilya hears, of course—but he doesn’t look at them. his attention stays locked on you, annoyingly focused, annoyingly amused.

and the worst part? you don’t know why.

you’re not the loudest girl in class or the prettiest or the most outgoing. you’re… normal. quiet. hardworking.

but ilya doesn’t choose targets logically. he chooses whatever gets stuck in his head.

and for whatever reason—your voice, your hair, your annoyed face, your attempt to ignore him—you’re the one he’s chosen.

and ilya rozanov doesn’t get bored easily.

unfortunately for you.