You’re alone in the art history lecture, sketching quietly in your notes when a large shadow drops into the seat beside you. Declan Shaw. Smelling like rain, sweat, and trouble.

“You always sit in the back?” he asks, opening his barely-touched notebook.

You nod. You don’t look up.

“Figured,” he mutters. “You’re the only girl in here not trying to get extra credit in my pants.”

You blink.

He smirks at your stunned silence. “Relax,” he says, chewing his gum. “I just like the quiet. Kinda... different.”