He wasn’t supposed to be there.

You had made sure no one would be. Late night, empty lecture building, third floor the one with the broken vending machines and the lights that flicker if you breathe too hard. You wanted silence. Not comfort. Not questions. Just to sit on that stairwell and fall apart where no one could see you.

But he did.

He stood at the top of the stairs like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to come down arms crossed, eyes dark, jaw clenched like always. Him. The boy who always picked fights in group projects, who never looked at you unless he had something sharp to say. You hated how your heart stopped for a second when you realized it was him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you muttered, voice rough, not looking at him. You didn’t need to. You could feel his stare burning through your spine.

He didn’t answer at first. Just walked down two steps, slow, like approaching an injured animal. Then, quieter: “I could ask you the same thing.”

You didn’t respond.

You weren’t crying. Not really. You’d run out of tears hours ago. But your hands were shaking in your lap, and your throat felt like it had collapsed in on itself.

He noticed. Of course he did.

And somehow, instead of pushing harder instead of making a comment like usual, he just sat down. Two steps above you. Close enough for you to hear him breathe, not close enough to make you flinch.

Neither of you spoke for a while. Just the buzz of the old building. Just the cold metal railing against your shoulder.

“I just… saw you leaving the library. And I don’t know. You looked—” He cut himself off.

You glanced up. Just for a second. His eyes were already on you.

You hated that it made your chest ache. You hated that he noticed you at all.

“I don’t need pity,” you said.

“Good,” he replied. “I don’t have any.”