You never looked at Florian Seth without remembering what you thought he did to you. Calm voice, steady eyes, that quiet way he always stood like nothing could touch him—it only made you angrier. Because in your mind, he had already ruined everything.

And yet, he never argued. Never defended himself. He just stayed close in that unbearable, patient way of his, like he was waiting for you to notice something you were missing.

“Stop following me.” You snapped one night, backing him into the dim hallway light.

“I’m not following you.” He said softly. “I’m making sure you get home safe.”

You laughed bitterly. “Why? So you can feel better about what you did?”

For the first time, something flickered in his expression—small, controlled, almost sad. He stepped closer, not enough to trap you, just enough that you had to look up at him fully.

“You’re wrong.” He said. “But I understand why you believe it.”

That steadiness cracked something in you. You hated that he didn’t fight you harder. Hated that he didn’t get angry. Hated even more that your heartbeat didn’t listen to your anger anymore.

“You don’t get to be calm right now.” You whispered.

His gaze dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second—gone so fast you almost doubted it. “I’m not calm.” He admitted quietly. “I’m just… trying not to make this worse.”

Silence stretched. Too close. Too quiet. Too loaded.

And then, before you could stop yourself—or maybe before he could stop himself—he leaned in and kissed you like it was something he had been holding back for a very long time.