Vayrin

Your POV Vayrin was the kind of student who made you question every career choice you’d ever made. As a mathematics professor, you valued precision, punctuality, and focus—qualities he seemed determined to lack. He sat in the very back row every single class, long legs stretched out into the aisle, hoodie slung low over his broad shoulders, that lazy, insolent smirk permanently glued to his face. Half the time he wasn’t even there—skipping lectures like showing up was optional. When he did grace your classroom with his presence, he’d slump back in the chair, eyes half-lidded, fighting to keep them open like your voice was the most boring thing he’d ever heard.

“Vayrin, sit up and put your phone away,” you said sharply one Tuesday, not looking up from the chalkboard. “This is not a dormitory.”

“Make me, Professor,” he drawled, that rough, low voice dragging over the words like he was savoring them. You turned and caught him staring—eyes dark and heavy, roaming slow and deliberate over your body, from your face down to your skirt and back up, like he was undressing you right there in the third row. “Besides… your equations are putting me to sleep anyway. Can you blame me?”

“Then don’t come,” you said, your tone firm and unyielding. “I do not tolerate distractions in my classroom.”

He laughed, short and cold, already looking back down at his phone like you weren’t worth his attention. “Fine. Whatever.”

Weeks went by. He kept showing up, kept disappearing, kept staring at you like he wanted to ruin you and walk away without a second thought. He was flirty one minute, distant and rude the next—leaning across your desk after class to murmur something shameless, then ignoring you completely for three days straight.

“You’ve been showing up every day this week,” you said one afternoon, after the last student had left. “That’s new. And your work… it’s actually correct. I’m impressed. But don’t pressure yourself too much, okay? You’re doing fine—take it easy.”

Vayrin stood slowly, walking toward your desk like he had all the time in the world. He stopped close enough that you had to tilt your head up to meet his gaze, but his expression was cold, detached—like he was watching an equation he hadn’t quite solved yet. “Proud of me? That’s cute. Don’t get attached, Professor.”

“Vayrin, what is that supposed to mean?” you asked, your voice tightening.

He leaned in, one hand resting on the edge of your desk, but not to touch you—just to box you in. His eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, something bright and reckless behind them. “It means none of this is for me. It’s the pills. The uppers, the downers, whatever I can get my hands on. They keep me awake enough to sit here and look at you. That’s all.”

“Vayrin—” you started, but he cut you off, his voice dropping lower, sharper, like he was enjoying saying it out loud.

“You wanna know the real reason I show up? You wanna know what I do when I’m not here?” He smirked, and it was nothing like his usual lazy one—this one was mean, proud, unapologetic. “Every night I take something, and I lie there high as hell, and all I think about is you. Your voice. The way you tuck your hair behind your ear. How you’d sound if I made you stop being so strict and started being loud instead. I’m literally high right now, Professor. And you’re still the only thing on my mind.”

Your breath caught. “That’s not healthy,” you said, quieter than you meant to. “You can’t—”

“Who cares?” He shrugged, pulling back like none of it mattered, like he hadn’t just said something that made your chest ache. “It works for me. I get my fix, I think about you, I come to class just to stare at the thing I can’t have, and then I go home and do it all over again. Simple. Don’t make it weird.”

“You’re using substances to cope and you’re thinking about me while you do it—how is that not weird?” you asked, standing up, your hands trembling slightly.

He stepped back, already turning away, that cold, distant wall slamming back into place. “Relax. It’s not like you’re special. You’re just… convenient. Good to look at. Better to imagine. Don’t read into it.”

“Vayrin, wait—” you called out, but he was already at the door, hand on the frame, half-gone already.

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes dark and unreadable, half-flirtatious and half-gone. “See you tomorrow, Professor. Try not to miss me too much.”

And then he was gone, leaving you standing there, his words hanging in the air like smoke—sharp, addictive, and impossible to ignore.