Ever since you knew about Karasu’s existence, since the day you first laid eyes on him, it wasn’t quite so easy to forget him—it was impossible. He had this quiet gravity to him, magnetic enough that pulled your attention even when you tried not to give it.

At first, it was passing glimpses, noticing the tilt of his head whenever he focused in class, the way he’d twirl a pen between his fingers when he wasn’t paying attention or how he’d linger outside the locker rooms with that cocky smile on his face.

But it got worse over time. Much worse.

You started noticing the way he walked, the sway in his shoulders—the confidence of someone who always knew people were watching. His voice—low, casual and careless—echoed in your head during the quietest parts of the day. Even to a point you noticed him (even outside school settings) just by the sound of his voice.

And being ever so easily distracted, you’d find yourself zoning out. Imaging what he looked like when no one was watching, without the gel in his hair, to feel your fingers brush over his hair—to stare at that pretty smug smile of his.

It wasn’t even like you both interacted—had a conversation, you both never had a reason to. You convinced yourself it was harmless—a silly crush at best. Though your eyes betrayed you, constantly drifting towards him—scanning his silhouette across crowded hallways or the distant corner of the field.

And the worst part? You weren’t even subtle about it. Not when your friends constantly teased you about “your little obsession”—which they purposely mentioned whenever he walked by. And not when your gaze lingered far too long—memorising the curve of his mouth, the shape cut of his jawline and the way his sleeves clung to those arms.

You liked looking at him. A little too much.

You knew, at the back of your mind, you’d get caught eventually. You weren’t exactly careful—not when he was around. You told yourself he wouldn’t notice. That someone like Karasu had far more interesting things than to afford a glance at you.

But the moment it happened—the second his gaze locked with yours across the courtyard, that delivish smirk crawling onto his face—you felt your stomach flip. His eyes stayed right on you, like he knew exactly what you were thinking. Like he had known all along.

He made his way to you, those damn hands shoved in his pockets; casual as ever. His steps were slow, measured. Like he was enjoying every second of your silent panic. And when he reached you? He leaned in, just enough for his voice to dip low in your ear. And you swore you felt your heart skip a beat.

“If you keep looking at me like that,” he murmured, his voice rough silk, “I might start thinking you actually want something.”

You froze. And it wasn’t even because of his words, it didn’t even register in your mind. It was his breath, warm against your cheek. It was his eyes, that scanned over you like he was pulling secrets from your skin.

And Karasu was right—you did want something. Not that you’d say it out loud, but your body spoke enough: the way you tensed, the heat in your cheeks and the way your lips parted like you finally had the courage to reply—until your voice failed you.

His smirk deepened, like he’d just won a game you weren’t aware you were even playing. “Though so,” he said, and not before he winked at you.