The instructor’s voice barely cuts through the burst of laughter from the back row — his row. Your grip tightens around your pen as Ridoc Gamlyn cracks another joke, setting off his pack of second-year idiots again. You snap your notebook shut, twist in your seat, and shoot him a sharp glare meant to shut him up.

He doesn’t even flinch. Propped casually on his elbows, Ridoc meets your glare with a smirk, eyes gleaming with trouble.

He tosses out a teasing remark — one that sounds dangerously close to a flirt. You cut him off saying that you don’t do second-years.

His grin only deepens, lazy and confident, as he leans in with a voice loud enough to catch your row.

“Good thing I fuck like a third.”