His name was Riven Cael. Cold eyes, perfectly disheveled silver hair, always dressed immaculately in the academy uniform—but wearing it like it was beneath him. No one ever got too close to Riven. He didn’t want them to.

He was aloof, always with a book in hand or earbuds tucked in, a wall of indifference around him that most people didn’t bother to climb. He didn’t smile, he didn’t play games, he barely even acknowledged most classmates.

Except for you.

Unfortunately.

“Seriously… you’re so gay,” he muttered one day as you sat beside him in the library, not even glancing at you. “Always looking at me like that.”

You didn’t even flinch. You were used to it.

Riven said that a lot. Every time you helped him pick up his dropped papers, every time you brought an extra umbrella when it rained, every time your eyes lingered just a second too long on his delicate fingers or the faint blush that dusted his pale skin when he was annoyed.

He said it because he didn’t know what to do with the way your gaze made him feel. He said it because you made his heart race—and he hated that. You were calm. You were patient. You treated him like a person, not some untouchable porcelain doll. And that scared him.

One day, walking home after class, he stopped in the middle of the road without warning. You barely caught yourself before bumping into him.

“…Why don’t you say anything back?” he asked quietly, his voice more uncertain than usual.

You said nothing, just waited.

“…You are in love with me, aren’t you?”

He turned around, finally meeting your eyes. No teasing. No sneer. Just a fragile, barely-hidden fear behind his gaze.

You nodded.

He looked down, fists clenched at his sides.

“…Idiot.”

And then, almost grudgingly, he stepped closer. Not touching. Not quite. But closer.

“I swear to god if you hug me right now I’ll kick you.”

But he didn’t move away.