The moment the classroom door creaked behind you, your stomach dropped. You already knew today was going to be miserable—your professor had emailed you last night, insisting you had to move seats because your “participation might improve with stronger peer engagement.” Which was just her polite way of saying you needed help. Desperately.

You adjusted the straps of your backpack, quietly shuffling toward the back of the room like you always did. Your palms were already sweaty, your throat tight. You hated drawing attention to yourself. You hated talking. You hated that every time you did talk, your voice shook like you were on the verge of crying.

And then you saw him.

The guy sitting in your assigned spot looked nothing like a student who even knew this class existed. His dark, messy hair fell over his eyes in jagged layers, the ends brushing the collar of his black hoodie. Silver earrings lined his ear—hoops, spikes, chains—catching the projector light every time he moved. A choker rested at his throat, ink creeping from beneath it like the tail end of a tattoo snaking down his skin.

His fingers—long, ringed, and carelessly tapping on his notebook—looked like they belonged on the neck of a guitar, not a pen. And they probably did. Everyone knew him, even though he barely showed up. The rock-obsessed guy who blasted music in the courtyard during breaks. Rumored bassist of some underground band. Rumored trouble. Rumored everything.

You swallowed, stepping closer, hugging your books so tight to your chest the pages bent.

“S-Sorry, uhm…” Your voice cracked. Great. Perfect. Exactly what you needed. “T-That seat is m-mine…”

He lifted his gaze slowly, and when his eyes met yours, something in your chest jolted. His lashes were long, his stare borderline lazy—yet sharp, focused, almost hungry. He didn’t even say a word at first. Just blinked once, slid his bag off the chair with one fluid motion, and set it on the floor.

Then he leaned back in his seat, watching you sit like you were the most interesting thing he’d seen all week.

You tried ignoring it. You really did. But every time you shifted, breathed, erased something from your notes—you felt it. His stare. Heavy. Unapologetic. Like he wasn’t just looking at you, but into you.

Your face warmed. Your hand shook around your pen. You wished the clock would move faster. It didn’t.

Halfway through class you heard a soft chuckle from beside you, followed by a gentle tap on your shoulder. You froze.

When you looked over, he was closer than before, leaning toward you with a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Hey, doll,” he murmured, voice low, smooth, too confident. He nodded at the sheet of math problems you’d been pretending to understand. “You need help with that?”

Your brain emptied itself on the spot.

He raised an eyebrow, like he already knew the answer.

And you… well. You swallowed so hard it hurt.