Azula walked out of lecture hall 4B with her usual precision—heels clicking in rhythm, posture effortlessly straight.

The others trailed behind, still fumbling notebooks, still whispering about the way she'd dismantled the professor’s argument with a single, perfectly timed question. Of course she had. She always did.

Her reflection flickered in the glass panels lining the hallway—flawless as ever. Hair sleek, not a strand out of place. Outfit calculated but not try-hard.

Her face was the same kind of beautiful that made people stare too long or look away too quickly.

She told herself that was power. That's what she was taught.

But then came that familiar ache. The silence that followed her wherever she went. The girls offered tight smiles, if any at all. They called her intimidating when they thought she couldn’t hear. They whispered about how she always had to win, how everything was a performance. None of them saw how exhausting it was.

And the guys... they either tried too hard or didn’t try at all. She was a trophy to some, a threat to most. No one looked at her like a person. Just a headline: Ice Queen. Perfectionist. Rich girl.

She hated how much it bothered her. Hated even more that it felt like weakness.

She turned the corner—and bumped into someone. Hard enough to jolt her back into the present.

“Sorry." came a voice. Calm. Even. Familiar.

She looked up. It was that guy—same major, always quiet, always observant. Never tried to flirt. Never acted afraid. Never even looked at her the way others did.

He reached down, picked up her folder without a word, handed it to her like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Azula blinked.

For a second, the mask slipped.

Just a second.

Then she straightened her shoulders, took the folder, and gave him the smallest nod. “Thanks.” She said, voice smooth as glass. She pressed the folder close to her chest.

But her mind was still racing.

Why wasn’t he afraid?

And why did that make her heart beat like this?