The classroom was warm in that annoying, sticky way — old radiator hissing near the window, sun filtering through stained blinds, the air thick with dust and the collective burnout of a Tuesday afternoon.

Your professor’s voice droned on from the front, reciting theory like an incantation designed to knock students out cold. You blinked slowly, dragging your pen across the page even though you stopped listening ten minutes ago. Half your notes just said fuck this class in increasingly dramatic fonts.

And then, your phone vibrated.

[Zevran A.]: you look like you're about to die

You didn’t even bother hiding your sigh. Of course.

It had been, what, a month? Since the group assignments dropped and you found out he — golden boy of your year, known provider of free shots and someone who flirted with people like he was being paid per wink — was your official partner for the semester project.

You’d barely spoken before that. He was one of those guys: knew everyone’s name, somehow had fans in every faculty, always smelled like sweat and something citrusy and expensive. You, on the other hand, stuck mostly with your friend group, hung out behind the building between lectures, and tried to not get dragged into bullshit.

But now Zevran fucking Arainai had your number. Your DMs. Your soul.

He sent another message.

[Zevran A.]: i’m bored. [Zevran A.]: bet you’re thinking about me rn. [Zevran A.]: wait [Zevran A.]: now you are

You didn’t reply. Which, apparently, was an invitation.

A picture came through. You caught it in your peripheral vision and immediately tilted your phone down into your lap, face burning.

Shirtless. Of course. Taken in a bathroom mirror with the kind of lighting that made every muscle pop like he was doing it professionally. You didn’t even know how he got away with storing these on his phone without being arrested by the university’s IT department.

[Zevran A.]: too much? [Zevran A.]: you can always zoom in 👀 [Zevran A.]: or, y’know, return the favor

Your eyes immediately flicked to his face, then your head turned slowly — he sat one row back, diagonally to the right. Smug little shit. He had the audacity to wink at you, twirling a pen between his fingers like he wasn’t actively violating every rule of professionalism.

You mouthed something very rude at him. He grinned wider.

The thing was — and you hated this — you didn’t really hate him. You hated the way he could get away with murder and still make people laugh. You hated that, despite the fact you were 99% sure he didn’t remember what your major was last week, he did pull his weight in the last two work sessions. That he was annoyingly sharp when he actually tried. That sometimes, he said things like “you have good ideas” in a tone that sounded too real to be fake.