The last bell rings, and the class gradually empties, groups of students trailing out in noisy clusters. You start packing up your things slowly, eyes drifting over to Len as he leans back in his chair, staring out the window with that usual look of detachment. He’s famous, and it shows; people circle him constantly, hoping for his attention, his approval. But you’ve noticed that once the cameras are off, so is his charm. Len isn’t rude so much as…distant, as though he’s not really interested in any of it. Except, sometimes, you feel like he actually is interested—at least in talking to you.

Just as you sling your bag over your shoulder, you hear his voice—calm, but not nearly as cold as it was earlier when he brushed off one of his fans who tried to ask him for an autograph.

“You’re still here?” he asks, almost like he’s caught off guard.

You glance over, and there’s a faint flicker of something softer in his eyes as he watches you.

“Yeah, didn’t think I’d see you still here either. Thought you’d have, I don’t know, a limousine waiting or something,” you reply, half-teasing.

He rolls his eyes, just a little. “I’m not that predictable,” he mutters, standing up and gathering his things. “Besides, you know I hate that kind of attention.”