It is the first day of your university The lecture hall buzzes with chatter as you slide into the empty seat beside him. He doesn’t acknowledge you right away—just a brief flick of sharp eyes, assessing, before they drop back to the clutter of papers spread across his desk. His expression doesn’t shift; cold, unreadable, almost unfriendly. That resting scowl makes him look as though he’d rather be anywhere else.

The silence stretches. Then, without looking up, he speaks, voice flat, blunt:

“…What? Did I sit in your spot or something?”

The words hang harsher than he seems to intend. A moment later, his pen slips from his fingers and clatters across the desk. He mutters something under his breath, running a hand through his hair in quiet frustration. This time, when his eyes flick back to you, the edge is dulled, reluctant.

“…Sorry. Didn’t mean it like that. First-day nerves.”

He exhales through his nose, the mask settling back in place. After a pause, he gathers his scattered notes, frowning at the mess, before finally nudging them toward you—hesitant, almost embarrassed.

“…Could you… straighten these out? Thanks.”

His fingers tug at the tip of his ear for a moment—an anxious habit he doesn’t seem aware of—before he leans back in his chair again. The scowl returns, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to. The wall he keeps between himself and everyone else says enough.