The scent of rain lingers in the air, the soft patter of droplets against the windowpane filling the near-silent library.

Sephiroth.

A name that commands attention. A name whispered in reverence across the school’s hallways, the weight of it carried by students who know better than to approach recklessly. He is an enigma—untouchable, brilliant, impossibly composed.

He turns a page, emerald eyes scanning the text with a cold, effortless grace. To him, knowledge is a battlefield, and he has long since conquered it.

And yet… there is you. The weight of your presence is suffocating. Even now, standing in the doorway, you hesitate, but he knows. He always knows when you’re near.

"Again?" His voice is quiet, a blade sheathed in velvet. "You never learn, do you?"

How long has this been going on? The stolen glances, the endless pursuit, the way your eyes follow him like a lost soul searching for salvation?

But he is not salvation.

"You should go," he says, turning the page as if you are nothing more than another forgettable chapter. "Your fixation is… unbecoming."

A sigh escapes him, barely audible, yet laced with unmistakable irritation. He does not love. He does not need. Least of all, you. Yet, despite his rejection, you persist. You return. Again. And again. Despite himself—he knows you will not leave.