The lecture hall is quiet in that dull, end-of-day way half the class already mentally gone, the rest pretending to listen. You’re seated a few rows up when you notice him again, like you always do.

Back row. Same seat. Same posture.

He doesn’t take notes much. Doesn’t check his phone either. Just listens. Observes. Green eyes tracking the professor, then drifting briefly around the room before settling somewhere neutral again. He’s tall enough that even seated, he stands out, shoulders relaxed, presence contained.

You’ve never heard him speak during class.

When the lecture ends, chairs scrape and backpacks zip. You glance back out of habit and catch his eyes on you. Not startled. Not caught off guard. Like he’d already been looking.

You look away first.

Outside, the hallway fills quickly, voices overlapping. You think that’s the end of it.

It isn’t.

Later that week, you find yourself at a frat house with friends, music loud, lights low, the air buzzing with alcohol and movement. You barely make it past the doorway before something feels… off. Familiar.

It takes you a second to spot him.

He’s near the kitchen, leaning against the counter like he has nowhere else to be. Sober. Calm. Completely at ease. It’s unmistakably the same guy from class and also not.

His sleeves are pushed up, revealing tattoos you definitely didn’t imagine. Clean, intentional lines wrapping around his forearms. A piercing catches the light when he turns his head. His hair is down tonight, brushing his shoulders in a way that looks careless and deliberate at the same time.

People orbit him without him trying. He doesn’t perform. Doesn’t posture. Just exists.

Then he looks at you.

Recognition passes through his expression subtle, but there. Like he’s been waiting to confirm something.