Chapter Text
Chris's pov:
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“And Chris, your assigned seat is next to Matthew Sturniolo,” the teacher announces with absolute finality, scanning the classroom like he’s expecting applause for the decision.
“Matthew, please raise your hand.”
He pauses and scans the rows of students again, clearly still trying to connect names to faces.
The second Matt’s name leaves his lips, my entire body stiffens. Like a cold jolt of electricity shooting down my spine. I don’t even need to look to know Matt’s reaction—he probably looks like someone just told him his birthday’s canceled.
Slowly, reluctantly, I glance across the room—and yep. There he is.
Matthew Sturniolo .
Brooding. Tattooed. Annoying as hell.
He’s already glaring at me with the same look of disdain he’s had since freshman year, like I kicked his dog or murdered his entire bloodline. His usually blank expression now carved into a scowl so sharp it could cut glass.
We lock eyes.
And everything goes still.
It’s not the usual hate-filled stare we always exchange. This one feels different. Charged. The hair on my arms rises. For half a second, there’s something else beneath the loathing—something that makes my breath catch in my throat.
No. No way. I look away first, refusing to acknowledge it.
Matt, of course, scoffs dramatically and turns his head to the teacher, voice already dripping with attitude. “Teach,” he drawls, already leaning back in his chair like he owns it, “no offense, but my birthday’s tomorrow, and I don’t really… do Chris.” He gestures lazily toward me, like I’m some kind of nuisance. I raise a brow, unimpressed.
“So,” Matt continues, flashing a smile so fake it should be a crime, “you might wanna rethink that seating chart before someone ends up in the nurse’s office.”
Mr. Taylor looks up from his clipboard, blinking slowly like Matt’s not even speaking English.
“For everyone else’s sake?” Matt adds, gesturing to the rest of the class with both hands like he’s some kind of martyr.
To my irritation, half the class actually nods. Some even exchange looks like, Here we go again.
It’s not like our feud is a secret. Ever since freshman year, Matt and I have had this weird, borderline obsessive animosity toward each other. He struts through school like he’s above everyone, and honestly, maybe he is—he’s smart, absurdly attractive, and carries himself like a guy who knows way more than he should.
Still doesn’t stop him from being an ass.
To be fair, I’ve thrown more than a few punches of my own. We’ve been kicked out of classrooms for shouting matches, nearly got suspended once after a cafeteria incident involving a tray of mashed potatoes, and had the entire football team break us apart during a gym class brawl last semester.
“You’re all going to have to deal with it,” Mr. Taylor says flatly. “This is not my problem.” He turns back to the board like he didn’t just drop a bomb on the room.
I sigh, loud enough for Matt to hear, and grab my bag. The walk to his side of the room feels like slow-motion torture. Each step closer, the air gets thicker, like something heavy’s pressing down on my chest.
Matt watches me with narrowed eyes, arms crossed, jaw clenched. His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip—a nervous habit I’ve unfortunately noticed before—and I can’t help but watch.
Focus.
I drop into the seat beside him, dragging it out for extra emphasis. “Way to go, tiger,” I mutter, shooting him a sideways glance. “Maybe if you’d asked instead of acted like a spoiled little mafia prince, he might’ve actually listened.”
Matt scoffs and leans back, his hoodie bunching around his shoulders, showing the curve of a tattoo inked across his forearm. “Okay, well, at least I said something. Didn’t hear you talking.”
I roll my eyes. “Because there’s no point arguing with a teacher who clearly hates his job. And watching you fail was entertainment enough.”
His lip twitches. A smirk? A snarl? It’s hard to tell with him. But then his arms shift again—and I get another glance at the tattoos twisting around the muscles of his forearms. Dark ink. Sharp lines. Veins running just beneath the skin.
I look. Just a second too long.
Damn tattos are my thing.
Matt notices.
“The fuck are you looking at?” he snaps, turning toward me abruptly.
Tattos are definitely not my thing.
“Nothing, mop,” I say quickly, knowing it’ll get under his skin. It does.
Matt grits his teeth. “Stop calling me that.”
He says it too loud, loud enough to earn another glare from Mr. Taylor. Matt instantly shuts his mouth and fidgets with the drawstrings of his hoodie like a kid who just got caught swearing in church.
I grin. The boy who acts like he doesn’t give a damn about anything suddenly getting flustered? Golden.
I chuckle quietly, but it echoes. Mr. Taylor glares at me now, but I just blink back innocently. Go ahead. Write me up. I dare you.
In my head, I’m already plotting how to get out of this class. No way in hell am I doing an entire semester next to Matt. I’d rather eat chalk.
“Anywaysss,” Mr. Taylor drawls, turning back to the whiteboard and launching into some half-hearted lecture on functions and variables.
I glance over, fully intending to whisper another insult, but Matt’s not looking at me. He’s frozen.Completely still, eyes squeezed shut, body rigid as if he's in pain.
The veins in his arms stand out starkly beneath his skin, his knuckles white where his fists clench under the desk. Muscles straining. Breathing shallow.
Something’s wrong.
“Um… what the hell are you doing?” I ask, eyebrows furrowed.
Matt blinks, as if snapping out of a trance. His voice is low, clipped. “Mind your business.”
But there’s something in his tone—tight, panicked, almost.
I narrow my eyes, watching him carefully as he shifts in his seat, breathing uneven. For a second, just a second, I swear I see something flash in his irises—something not quite... human.
I shiver.
This is going to be a long year.
And for some reason, I can’t wait.