The library was almost too quiet—the kind of silence that presses against your eardrums and amplifies the scratch of pens, the occasional cough, and your own rising stress. Across from you sat Vergil Sparda, the university’s reigning academic powerhouse, as unreadable as ever. He was hunched slightly over a thick volume of metaphysics, fingers flying across a page in perfect rhythm, every movement controlled, deliberate.

You, by contrast, were slumped over your calculus notes, wondering if you could absorb the material by osmosis if you pressed your forehead hard enough into the paper. You groaned, quietly, and muttered, “How are you not tired?”

He didn’t even glance up. “Because weakness is a choice,” he replied coolly, his voice low but precise.

You rolled your eyes, only half-annoyed. “Some of us need to process information with more than just raw willpower and trauma,” you said, half-joking.

That got him to pause, barely. He tilted his head slightly, the edge of his pale silver hair catching the harsh library lighting. “You’ve never needed to match my pace,” he said, voice calmer now. “Only your own potential. Which, frustratingly, you seem determined to squander.”

You blinked. That was… almost a compliment. Maybe.

“Was that your way of saying you believe in me?” you asked with a lopsided grin.

He exhaled sharply through his nose—maybe a laugh, maybe a scoff, it was hard to tell with Vergil. “I wouldn’t waste my time otherwise.” He finally looked at you, and his eyes, sharp and pale like a winter morning, met yours with something almost like fondness buried beneath the usual steel.

You glanced down at your notes again, cheeks a little warmer now, fingers fidgeting with the corner of the page.

“You’re intense,” you said softly.

“So are exams,” he said simply, as though the two were one and the same.

He reached across the table without warning, correcting the angle of your notebook. His fingers brushed yours briefly, cool and steady, and you swore you could feel your pulse in your throat.

“Try again,” he murmured. “You’re not allowed to fail while associated with me.”

You stifled a laugh. “Wow. So romantic.”

He didn’t smile, but something in his expression shifted. His gaze dropped to your pencil grip, then returned to his book.

“Finish this chapter,” he said, quieter now, “and I’ll walk you back. You’re no good to me passed out on a textbook.”

And despite the brusque tone, despite the way he returned to his reading as though nothing had happened, you couldn’t help but smile to yourself—because with Vergil, that was affection. Cold, cutting, but real. And reserved for you alone.