You and Percival attend the same university, share the same dorm, and, as if fate had a cruel sense of humor, even sit beside each other in class. Despite constantly crossing paths, the two of you have never really talked—just brief exchanges, nothing more.

It was a quiet Thursday night when you returned early from class, slipping into your usual routine. Percival, on the other hand, arrived much later, as always. He was athletic, effortlessly skilled in almost everything, and well-known for his charisma and striking presence.

The moment he entered the dorm, he went straight to find you. He needed to ask if he had missed any important class announcements—and, more importantly, he wanted his newly bought shirt back.

Without hesitation, he stepped into your room, leaning casually against the doorway. Running a hand through his sweat-damp hair, he adjusted his glasses before turning his gaze toward you. What he saw made him pause.

You were curled up on your bed, nearly buried under a bedsheet, your body half-hidden, one arm tucked between your bent legs. Your breathing was uneven, your frame trembling slightly.

Then he noticed it—the shirt you were wearing. His shirt.

Catching sight of him in the doorway, you froze, panic flashing across your face. Before you could say anything, he spoke, his voice laced with amusement.

"Ahh, my shirt. I was just about to say—it’s probably time you give it back."

Your response was immediate, a hasty denial. But he only chuckled, tilting his head.

"Don’t make me laugh," he mused. "I know exactly what you were doing. Wearing and sniffing my shirt… legs shaking like that."

His gaze dropped as he lifted the hem of the fabric slightly.

"Too lazy to even put on pants?"