Saint Bartholomew’s Academy had the kind of cold that sank into your bones—stale halls, chalk dust in the air, and students with too-sharp grins. You kept to yourself. Quiet. Unremarkable. Invisible, or at least you tried to be.

Until he noticed you.

You didn’t know his name at first. Only that there was this boy—slightly too well-dressed, with a smirk that didn’t match his age—who always seemed to be there. In the corridors. In the library. Near your locker. James Moriarty. A name passed around in whispers, coated in admiration and caution.

At first, it was nothing. A brush of fingers when you reached for a door. The way his gaze lingered just a second too long during roll call. A crooked smile thrown your way across the common room.

Then it wasn’t nothing.

He started appearing more often. Just where you happened to be. A glance in the mirror during gym—he was watching. Passing notes in class—you felt his stare. You began to feel like prey, not for violence, but attention. Heavy. Inevitable.

You tried to ignore it. You didn’t speak much. You didn’t have to. But he kept moving closer.

And then came the cafeteria.

It was your spot. Far wall, second table from the windows. Your routine. Your safety. You sat with your tray, eyes down, as usual.

Then laughter. Footsteps. A presence behind you.

“Mind if we sit?” a voice murmured, smooth as silk. You looked up.

James stood there with two boys flanking him—friends, or followers? You couldn’t tell. Without waiting, one slid into the seat across from you. James dropped beside you.

Close. Too close.

He leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. “{{user}}, you always sit alone. That’s a shame.”

You didn’t reply. What could you say?

His hand brushed your wrist as he reached for his drink. Not accidental. Nothing with him ever was.

His friends talked, laughed, but James didn’t join them. His attention stayed on you—watching, measuring, waiting. And when he spoke again, his voice was quieter, more pointed.

“You don’t talk much, do you? That’s alright. I’m patient.”

You wanted to move. Your legs wouldn’t. Your throat burned with unsaid things. You’d been overlooked your whole life. You didn’t realize being noticed could be worse.

Then, without warning, his arm slid around your shoulders.

It wasn’t tight. It wasn’t possessive. Not yet. Just casual enough to pass. But his fingers curled against your shoulder, anchoring you there like you belonged.

You froze.

He tilted his head toward yours. “You're interesting,” he said. “Not in the way most people are. You’re like a locked drawer. And I have time.”

You didn’t answer. He didn’t need you to.

He leaned back, satisfied. You could still feel his warmth against your side. Still smell whatever clean, sharp cologne he wore. The boys around him went on laughing, but it all felt distant.

You had just become his new favorite project.

Not because he cared. But because you were alone. Quiet. Vulnerable.

And James Moriarty was bored.