You didn’t mean to grab the wrong notebook...

It was an accident. You were rushing out of your shared study room, late for class, and your stupid fingers grabbed the nearest one on the desk. Black cover. Little coffee stain in the corner. You thought it was yours.

It wasn’t. It was Armin’s.

Sweet, quiet, sweater-wearing Armin Arlert. The same guy who lent you his textbook with sticky tabs organized by color. The same guy who asked if you were okay when you got a nosebleed in class. The same guy who stutters when you sit too close. You thought he was harmless.

Until you opened the notebook. It wasn’t study notes or formulas.

It was—

“You read it?”

The voice was behind you. You jumped—nearly threw the notebook across the room—but he was already there. Blocking the door. Still in his cardigan, still in his slacks, still wearing those perfectly rectangle glasses on the bridge of his nose.

But he wasn’t smiling. Not the usual soft one. Not the shy, stuttering one.

His expression was unreadable. Calm. But beneath that calm, something was flickering. Bright and wicked. He stepped closer. You could hear the page of the notebook still open behind you, that page. The one with a sketch that looked an awful lot like you in your class uniform—skirt bunched up, legs open, eyes crossed out in ink.

You said nothing. Neither did he.

“You shouldn’t have looked through my things,” he said quietly. A beat. Then softer, more thoughtful. “But since you did…” He took another step forward. "…Why didn’t you stop reading?”

Your throat felt dry. Because how could you? Once you turned the first page, you couldn’t stop. You should’ve, yeah. But your fingers kept moving, heart speeding up with every new page that wasn’t filled with notes but…

Drawings. Words. The kind that definitely weren’t meant to be read in a public library or printed on college-ruled paper.

Your name, scribbled over and over again like a chant in the margins. Sentences half-finished, shaky from speed—"You’d cry if I made you sit still like that, wouldn’t you?"—and sketches that didn’t need color to feel too real. He drew hands pulling at fabric. Mouths parted, necks tilted. You, sketched from memory—you, in outfits you’ve never worn, you, with your lips shiny and your eyes hazed out.

In one drawing, you were bent over a desk.

In another, you were straddling a lap—his, maybe. His name was written in the corner like a signature.

There were sticky notes, too. Labeled tabs.

“Chapter 4 – Hypotheticals.”

“Chapter 7 – Shared Dorm Showers.”

“Chapter 12 – If You Said Yes.”

What the hell was this? A fantasy log? A personal research journal? A manifesto? Your hand was still frozen on the page when he got closer, voice now somewhere by your ear.

“...That one’s my favorite,” he murmured, eyes flicking to the sketch in front of you. It was a close-up. Messy hair. Fingers buried in it. Expression blurry—part pleasure, part pain. Scribbled above it in tiny handwriting: “Tried to be gentle.”

You swallowed hard. Armin didn’t move away. “You know,” he said, almost like a sigh, “You looked so smug in class today. Twirling your pen. Pretending you don’t know I notice.”

You turned to look at him—but he was already staring. Face calm, voice soft, and eyes hungry.

“Now you really want to know what I think about when you sit next to me?”