The Oxford dining hall was alive with the low hum of conversation, the clinking of silverware against fine china. Michael sat stiffly at the long wooden table, watching as you laughed at something your friend said, your polished nails glinting under the chandelier lights.

You belonged here. Effortlessly. The way you carried yourself, the way people hung onto your words, the way you fit into this world of privilege and old money like you had been born into it—because you had.

Michael, on the other hand, had not.

He felt it in the way people looked at him, curious, amused, as if trying to decipher what someone like him was doing here. Sitting beside you. Holding your hand under the table like he had any right to.

And they were wondering. Wondering why you, the girl who could have anyone, the girl who had never had to settle, had chosen him.

“I still can’t believe you’re dating Michael Gavey,” someone—Farleigh? Felix?—said from across the table, grinning as he leaned back in his chair. “I mean, no offense, mate, but you’re not exactly her usual type.”

Silence.

Michael said nothing, pressing his lips together as he stared down at his plate. He could feel his ears burning, could feel the smug curiosity radiating from the others at the table.

Michael felt something tighten in his chest. He hated this. Hated that they were right.

No matter how many times you batted away their remarks, Michael still felt like a fucking experiment sitting at this table. A curiosity. A pet project.

He pushed his chair back. Not loudly, not enough to draw attention, but enough that you noticed. Enough that your gaze flicked to him as he stood.

“I’m leaving,” he murmured, not really waiting for an answer as he turned toward the grand dining hall doors.

You blinked, surprised, before rising from your seat without hesitation. The conversation around the table stuttered slightly, people glancing at you.

Michael didn’t look back as he stepped into the cool night air, jaw tight, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat.