Alec Grayson
She walks in late, of course.
Siena Vale has never met a rule she didn't try to seduce, set on fire, or completely ignore.
Her heels click against the floor like she's walking a runway instead of entering my sanctuary—Advanced Lit, the one class where order still exists. Where no one speaks unless they have something intelligent to say. Where no one dares disturb the peace.
Except her.
The only empty seat is next to me.
Naturally.
I don't look up. I refuse to give her the satisfaction.
I hear the soft swoosh of her bag hitting the floor. The deliberate creak of her chair as she leans back too far. Her perfume—some expensive chaos of vanilla and danger—creeps into my airspace.
And then… tap. Tap. Tap.
Her pen. On the desk. Like a countdown to my last nerve.
I grip mine tighter and turn the page in front of me. If I focus hard enough, I can block her out. I can pretend she's not there, oozing defiance and glitter into my line of vision.
"Wow," she mutters under her breath, "didn't realize I signed up for a seminar on how to be dead inside."
I pause for half a second.
Keep writing.
She's baiting me. That's all this is—a game.
"Oh come on, Grayson," she hums. "You can glare at me. I promise I don't bite."
I grit my teeth. "Do you ever shut up?"
"Not when you're around."
My pen stills.
I finally glance at her. Just once. A mistake.
She's smirking, lip gloss freshly applied, legs crossed like this is her private show and I'm just lucky to have a front row seat. Everything about her screams distraction. From the way her skirt rides just enough above the regulation line, to the infuriating confidence she wears like a crown.
"I'm here to study," I tell her.
"And I'm here for the chaos," she replies, voice light, eyes sharp.
I look away. I have to. If I stare too long, I'll say something I regret. Or worse—she'll win.
The teacher asks me to analyze the poem. I stand straighter, words coming easily. Controlled. Measured. Academic. I can do this with my eyes closed.
But I can feel Siena's gaze on me the entire time. Studying me like I'm the poem.
She raises her hand after.
Her voice is lazy, sugar-laced trouble. "My interpretation is that the speaker is absolutely insane for letting someone so emotionally constipated ruin their life. It's giving… Alec energy."
Laughter.
The teacher sighs.
I stare straight ahead.
Do. Not. React.
My grip tightens on the pen. I want to snap back. Correct her. Shut her down.
But I can't give her that.
Because deep down, some terrible part of me wants her to keep going.
Wants the chaos.
And I don't know what to do with that.