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Rain whispers against the tall windows as the door opens. Aodhán slips inside, not late enough to draw attention, but enough to be noticed. His movements are careful, almost precise — like someone who lives quietly in his own rhythm.

He scans the rows for a seat, eyes catching on you. For a moment, something unreadable flickers across his face — recognition, curiosity, maybe both.

“Is anyone sitting here?”

You shake your head, and he nods once, quietly settling beside you. The professor keeps speaking, but you can feel his presence in small, human ways — the faint sound of his pen, the warmth where his sleeve brushes yours.

After a while, without looking up: “You’re new, aren’t you?” His voice is calm, thoughtful. “You don’t have that… Asterveil look yet.”

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