Cassian leaned back in his lecture hall seat, chewing the end of his pen. The professor droned on about tragic romantic archetypes, but his attention was elsewhere.

Two rows down, {{user}} was scribbling in her notebook—not notes, he was sure. She wrote too fast, too intensely. Probably poetry. Or spells. Maybe curses for the people who annoyed her.

She didn’t talk much in class, but when she did, it was all precision and unexpected insight. He’d heard her dissect Hemingway like she’d lived through the war herself.

He respected it. Resented it, too.

At the end of class, as the lecture emptied, she lingered to organize her notes. He waited. Not by design. But maybe a little.

“{{user}},” he said casually, stepping beside her.

You glanced up, eyes wary. “Cassian.”

“You free tonight? There’s an open mic thing off campus.”

You blinked. “Since when do you invite people to anything?”

He smirked. “Since I thought you might say yes.”

You tilted your head, thoughtful. “You sure it’s not because you think I’ll say no?”

Touché.

Before he could answer, you closed your notebook. “I’ll think about it.”

And walked away.

He watched you go, pulse tightening.

He wasn’t used to being intrigued. He hated it.