Hanging out with your friends during lunch always felt louder when you were outside— voices overlapping, people calling names, the occasional burst of laughter cutting through everything like glass. You were mid-conversation with your friend, half-listening as he talked, half-watching the crowd the way you always did. He waved at someone across the yard, casual like always.

Then he stopped walking.

You frowned slightly, following his line of sight before your eyes landed on him.

Sorren.

Of course it was.

He stood a little off from the rest, but not really alone — people hovered near him like they always did. Close enough to be seen with him, far enough not to test him. Arms crossed, sleeves pulled just enough to show ink and muscle, cigarette resting between his fingers like it belonged there. His gaze lifted slowly, landing on you without hesitation.

And stayed there.

Not surprised. Not curious.

Just that same steady, unreadable glare that always managed to get under your skin.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, already irritated. “Don’t,” you muttered under your breath to your friend.

Too late.

“Yo, Ren!” your friend called out, already stepping toward him.

You stood there for half a second, debating just leaving him to it. Let him go. Let him talk. Let Sorren keep staring like that from across the yard.

But no—

You weren’t about to look like you backed off.

So you followed.

By the time you reached them, Sorren hadn’t moved much. Just shifted his weight slightly, cigarette lowering as his eyes tracked you approaching like he’d expected it. Like he knew you wouldn’t stay away.

“Didn’t think you’d come over,” he said, voice low, even, that faint edge of something sitting just beneath it.

Not friendly.

Never friendly.

You crossed your arms, mirroring him without thinking. “Didn’t think you’d still be staring,” you shot back.

A flicker—barely there—passed through his expression. Not quite a smile. Not quite irritation.

Something in between.

“You’re hard to ignore,” he replied, tone flat, but his gaze didn’t leave yours. Not once.

Your friend laughed awkwardly, clearly picking up on the tension but pretending not to. “Alright, alright… I see how it is—”

Neither of you looked at him.

Sorren tilted his head slightly, studying you in that slow, deliberate way that always felt like too much. Like he was trying to figure something out and getting annoyed that he couldn’t.

“Still running your mouth?” he added, quieter now.

You stepped just a little closer without thinking, chin lifting. “Only when you’re around.”

A pause.

The cigarette burned low between his fingers, forgotten.

And for the first time, his gaze dipped—brief, quick—before snapping back to your eyes.

Subtle.

But there.

“…Figures,” he muttered.

And somehow, this time, it didn’t sound like he hated it as much as he should have.