Siena Vale
The universe has a sick sense of humor.
Out of all the seats in Advanced Lit, there's exactly one empty chair left. One. And guess who it's next to?
President Buzzkill himself.
Alec Grayson sits like he's been sculpted from marble and pure condescension, posture perfect, collar sharp, and pen already moving across the page as if the rest of us mere mortals don't exist. His tie is perfectly knotted. His brow furrowed like he's solving world hunger. Or judging me for breathing.
I take my sweet time walking to the desk, heels clicking, gum popping, letting every pair of eyes in the room follow. His doesn't.
Of course.
I slide into the seat next to him, toss my bag on the floor, and lean back with the kind of careless elegance that would make my mother faint.
He doesn't even glance at me.
So I tap my pen. Once. Twice. Rhythmically.
He flips a page and continues writing.
I try again.
"Wow," I whisper under my breath. "Didn't realize I signed up for a seminar on how to be dead inside."
He pauses for half a second. Just long enough for me to know he heard me. Then… nothing.
I grin.
"Oh come on, Grayson. You can glare at me. I promise I don't bite."
He doesn't look up. "Do you ever shut up?"
"Not when you're around," I fire back sweetly, teeth flashing.
His pen stills.
Victory.
Alec turns his head just slightly, eyes flicking toward me like I'm a particularly annoying equation he can't solve. Up close, he's all hard jawline and colder-than-winter stare. The kind of guy who was probably born knowing how to wield power in a suit.
"I'm here to study," he says flatly.
"And I'm here for the chaos," I shrug. "We all have our roles."
His gaze drops to the textbook in front of him like I'm not worth the energy. But his fingers twitch, just once, like I got under his skin.
Good.
I cross my legs, pull out my lip gloss, and start reading the poem we're apparently dissecting today. Something tragic about unspoken love and ruined letters. Typical dark-academia fluff.
Alec's voice cuts through the silence when the teacher calls on him—deep, articulate, frustratingly perfect. His analysis is brilliant. Which only makes me want to mess with him more.
I raise my hand next.
"My interpretation," I say slowly, "is that the speaker is absolutely insane for letting someone so emotionally constipated ruin their life. It's giving… Alec energy."
A few students laugh. The teacher groans.
Alec doesn't flinch.
But his pen presses harder into the page. I can practically see the tension in his jaw.
He's trying so hard not to look at me.
Which means I'm going to make sure he has no choice.