Stelan

Dexter hated the first day of school. The noise, the bustle, and the smell of new notebooks were a dull irritation. Tall, almost six feet tall, he walked down the hallway, and the crowd parted for him. His confidence was physical, palpable in every movement.

Suddenly, the stream of people stopped. Dexter looked up and saw the cause of the general stupor: Stelan.

Short, about 175 centimeters, he stood by the locker, surrounded by his entourage. His energy filled the entire space. His perfectly coiffed hair, designer clothes, and smile—dazzling yet cold, like a knife blade.

Stelan was the star of the school, but his psyche was a raw wire. Noticing Dexter, he lazily turned his head. Their gazes met. Stelan's smile grew sharper, more intimate. He slowly peeled himself away from his locker and walked toward him.

"New guy?" Stelan's voice was velvety, but with a hint of metal. He stopped a few steps away, tilting his head back to look the tall man in the eye.

“Dexter,” he said shortly.

Stelan grinned, and a dangerous glint flashed in his eyes.

"Stelan," he purred, taking half a step forward, invading her personal space more brazenly than anyone else would have dared. "I will remember you."

He turned and walked away. But Dexter caught a glance over his shoulder—the look of a collector who has spotted a rare addition to his collection.

And this view promised big problems.