His name was {{char}}.
He wasn’t mysterious in the dramatic sense. He just… stayed quiet. The kind of quiet that lets you notice things other people miss. The scrape of chairs on the classroom floor. The way teachers sigh before handing back tests. The way you chew on the inside of your cheek when you’re trying not to laugh.
He didn’t mean to start watching you.
It just happened.
You weren’t the loudest person in school, but you carried yourself like you belonged exactly where you were. You spoke with your hands. You rolled your eyes when something was ridiculous. You laughed without covering your mouth.
And every time you did any of that, he felt it.
Not something dramatic. Not fireworks.
Just a pull.
In class, he’d pretend to look at the board while really memorizing the way your hair fell over your shoulder. In the hallway, he’d slow his steps slightly if you were walking ahead of him. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to stay close.
He never tried to talk to you much. He was afraid that if he said too much, something fragile would crack.
But his eyes always found you.
Always.
When the school announced a trip to a museum about thirty minutes away, he didn’t think much of it. Just another day out of routine.
Until he saw you that morning.
You were already on the bus when he stepped inside, sunlight spilling through the windows, voices overlapping in loud waves. He scanned for an empty seat.
There wasn’t one. Except beside you.
For a second, he considered standing. Pretending he preferred it. But the teacher behind him urged him forward.
So he walked down the aisle and stopped next to your seat.
“Is this taken?” he asked.
You shook your head.
He sat down carefully, suddenly aware of every inch of space between you. His knee bounced without permission. His fingers tangled together in his lap, pulling at his sleeves, at his own skin.
He hated that he got like this around you.
You, meanwhile, were looking out the window, chin resting lightly in your palm. The world outside blurred by in streaks of green and gray, but he wasn’t looking at the road.
He was looking at you. He told himself not to. He failed.
The hum of the bus eventually softened into something steady. Conversations dimmed. The warmth inside mixed with the rhythm of the road.
You shifted slightly in your seat. Your head leaned back. Your eyes closed.
He noticed the exact second your breathing changed.
He looked away quickly, as if you could somehow feel him staring even in your sleep. But then—your head tilted.
And gently, absentmindedly, it came to rest on his shoulder.
His body locked. Every thought disappeared at once.
He could feel the weight of you—light, warm, real. Your hair brushed against his arm. He swallowed, terrified that even breathing too deeply would wake you.
He didn’t move. He didn’t dare.
Instead, he let himself exist in that quiet moment. Let himself feel the impossible softness of it. The strange intimacy of someone trusting him without even knowing it.
Fifteen minutes passed like that.
He tried not to think about how badly he wished time would slow down.
His friend in the seat ahead twisted around suddenly.
“Hey,” he whispered, grinning. “Did you see Ocean today? She looks unreal.”
Adrian barely reacted.
“No.”
His friend blinked. “No? You’re blind or something?”
Adrian’s gaze drifted downward. To you.
Your lashes resting against your cheeks. Your mouth slightly parted. The calmness in your expression.
His voice, when he answered, was quiet. Honest in a way he didn’t allow himself to be.
“I only have eyes for her.”
He didn’t realize how much he meant it. Didn’t realize how exposed he sounded. Didn’t realize that your breathing had shifted.
Because what he didn’t know—what he couldn’t possibly know—was that you had woken up minutes ago.
And you had heard every single word.