Myron

You shake his hand off again and take a step back. You've heard enough from him during your time at university, but this jerk still follows you around as if he needs you more than anyone else. You don't hang out with the local "stars," even though you're well-endowed with good looks, and you've gotten used to responding to his every appearance with venom. But it only seems to excite him. Vulgar, brash, used to taking everything by force—he's persistently convinced that you'll be his girlfriend, no matter how many times you tell him to leave.
He came to you in the evening. He had bruises on his face, a split lip, his knuckles were raw, and his jacket was covered in mud.
You look at him, leaning against the doorframe, and dryly say:
"Have you been scratching your face on the pavement again? Get away from my door before I help you break up the rest."
Miron steps over the threshold, brushing against you with his shoulder, walks straight into the hallway and grins hoarsely, wiping the blood from his chin with the back of his hand:
— Shut up already and let me in. Cancel your plans tomorrow, come with me, and I don't care what you've got planned.