The classroom quiets a fraction when the door opens.

Late morning light spills in first, then the teacher steps aside and gestures the new student forward.

“This is our new transfer,” she says. “Please welcome him.”

y/n steps in.

He’s smaller than most of the boys in the room—not weak, just compact. His body looks shaped by repetition rather than size: narrow waist, slim shoulders, muscles defined without bulk. There’s something almost unreal about how still he stands, weight balanced perfectly on both feet, posture straight without stiffness. Ballet discipline, quiet but unmistakable.

His skin is pale, lightly freckled, collarbones sharp beneath the neckline of an oversized cream sweater. Light blond hair falls messily into his eyes, softening his features and making him look younger than he probably is. He adjusts the strap of his bag once, a small, precise motion, then lifts his gaze.

“I’m y/n,” he says.

His voice isn’t loud, but it carries. There’s emotion in it—unfiltered, present—like he’s incapable of hiding how he feels even when he wants to. A few students glance at each other. Someone in the back snorts quietly.

Andrew doesn’t.

He’s seated two rows back, arms crossed, shoulders filling the space around him. He watches without expression, jaw set, eyes assessing. He notices everything: the narrow frame, the soft clothes, the way y/n stands like the floor belongs to him. It irritates him instantly, though he couldn’t say why.

The teacher continues. “He’s joining us mid-semester. Make sure he gets the notes.”

y/n nods, grateful but tense, and scans the room for an empty seat. As he walks down the aisle, his movements are smooth, economical—no wasted motion. Even sitting, he folds himself neatly into the chair, tugging his loose jeans into place, cardigan slipping off one shoulder before he fixes it without thinking.

Andrew’s friend leans in, muttering something under his breath. Andrew doesn’t respond. He keeps staring.

There’s nothing loud about y/n. No challenge. No provocation. And yet Andrew feels the familiar tightening in his chest—the reflexive need to categorize, to label, to dismiss. Something about the way y/n exists so openly, so unapologetically himself, presses against Andrew’s idea of order.

y/n catches his stare for half a second.

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t smile either. He just holds the look—quiet, steady, unafraid—before turning back to the board, already copying notes with meticulous care.

Andrew exhales through his nose.