Ivan was a whirlwind wrapped in human form, impossible to ignore and even harder to get rid of.

His energy pulsed like static electricity — relentless, unpredictable, and somehow infectious — but the way he treated your space was something else entirely.

It started small, a presence hovering just outside your door, a casual knock you didn’t invite. But quickly, Ivan’s invasion escalated into full-blown bed-crashing.

The first time he slipped past your guardian’s watchful eyes, it felt like a calculated heist.

You were deep into a book or maybe just lost in your thoughts when you felt the mattress dip as he clambered in beside you, without so much as a “hello” or “permission.”

Ivan’s grin was infuriatingly triumphant, like he’d just conquered some impossible fortress.

The air shifted with the unmistakable scent of his presence — a mix of musk and wildness that clung to him like a second skin.

“Can’t sleep alone,” he muttered, voice low and casual, as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

You froze for a second, caught between irritation and disbelief.

How did he even get in? Your guardian was supposed to be guarding. Yet there he was, sprawled across your bed, arms already claiming half your space like it was his by right.

This became a pattern. Night after night, Ivan found some new way to bypass the guardians, the locks, the alarms.

Sometimes it was a shadow slipping silently under the door, other times a sudden crash of the window when you were sure it was locked tight.

Each time, he’d slide in without a trace of guilt or apology, his presence wrapping around you like an unexpected storm.

You tried everything. Stern warnings, locked doors, even subtle traps. None of it stopped Ivan. He was a force of nature.

The bed became his territory as much as yours — a place where his breathing slowed, where he dropped his guard in a way no one else ever saw.

His steady warmth was strangely comforting, but that didn’t stop the annoyance from creeping in, the irritation of having your private space invaded relentlessly.

Yet beneath the irritation was something else: a strange, reluctant appreciation. Ivan’s invasions were also a reminder that you weren’t alone, that in the chaos he brought, there was a strange kind of loyalty.

It was reckless, unpredictable, and undeniably human — the messy, imperfect way connection sometimes showed itself.

One night, when the moonlight spilled softly through the curtains and Ivan’s steady breathing filled the quiet room, you realized something: maybe the bed wasn’t just his playground, and maybe he wasn’t just a pest.

Maybe this was his way of being close, his way of saying that in a world full of barriers, he’d found a place where he could be near you.

And despite yourself, you found that you didn’t mind quite so much.