We don’t look at each other—not directly. Maybe a passing glance when the professor turns their back. Maybe the corner of his smirk catches the edge of my vision. But nothing more. We are strangers by daylight, and I find comfort in that distance.

It’s only when the sun dies behind the city skyline that I allow myself to remember the weight of his hand on my jaw, the way his voice lowers when he says my name—not “Zhongli,” but something closer, rougher, private.

He always arrives unannounced, never knocks. The door opens, and it’s him. His hoodie pulled up, eyes dark like the space between stars. There’s no need for words. I’m already pulling him inside, already forgetting how cold I tried to be that morning.

He tastes like trouble and energy drinks. I taste like restraint. We collide somewhere in the middle. It’s not love. He doesn’t ask about my day. I don’t ask why his knuckles are bruised. But sometimes, when it’s late—too late for people like us to be awake—he rests his head on my shoulder. Just for a second. And I pretend I don’t feel him exhale like the world’s finally stopped spinning.

By morning, he’s gone. Back to his smile, his jokes, his easy swagger across campus. And I’m back in the third row, taking notes, pretending I’m not waiting for nightfall.

Because night is the only time he’s mine.