The library was packed—overflowing with stressed, sleep-deprived students flipping pages like their lives depended on it. At the window table, the "Golden Boys" sat in their familiar formation, sunlight catching on scattered notebooks.
Saga devoured his textbook like he could win the exam through intimidation alone, with Aioros looking at him with worry. Aioria whispered formulas under his breath, leg bouncing with nervous energy as Shaka tried to help him relax a little. Milo was already bored, doodling tiny dramatic sketches of teachers and classmates while Kanon and Shura stared, judging the drawings in a friendly mocking manner.
And Camus— He remained the picture of composure. Every line he wrote was clean, deliberate. His posture perfect, scarf adjusted just so, expression calm in a way no one else in the room could hope to match.
Until a familiar presence moved nearby.
Someone from one of the school’s other popular circles— always close enough to catch Camus’s attention without trying.
He didn’t look at first. He tried not to.
But the subtle shift in the air gave them away. A set of footsteps he recognized. A quiet aura that always pulled at the edge of his awareness.
His pen slowed. Just barely.
Then his eyes lifted—softly, subtly, like he couldn’t quite stop himself.
Milo caught it instantly. “There it is. The Camus Glance.”
Camus inhaled through his nose, perfectly composed. “You’re imagining things.”
Saga leaned back. “We’re really not.”
Mu raises an eyebrow the second Camus pauses in his notes. Deathmask leans back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes gleaming with mischief.
“So,” Afrodite drawls “going to pretend you didn’t stare this time?”
Camus closes his notebook with a quiet snap.
“You’re all imagining things,” he says coolly. “She's not even part of our group, so keep your assumptions to yourselves.”
His friends grin like they've just been proven right, giving him a knowing look.
He gathers his books with practiced elegance, letting silence do the rest— before glaring at them with annoyance.