You were just rushing out of the bookstore, your arms full of mock exam papers and caffeine-laced snacks, when your shoulder slammed into someone’s chest with an audible thud.

Your papers exploded like confetti.

“Shit—sorry—!” you crouched, trying to grab your things before the wind took them away.

“I got it,” a low, calm voice said above you.

You looked up.

He was tall. Older. Dressed in all black with headphones hanging around his neck and a book in his hand—Kafka on the Shore, of all things. His eyes met yours, dark and unreadable.

“You alright?”

“Y-Yeah. Just my pride,” you muttered, awkwardly brushing your hair back.

He handed you your papers, one brow raised slightly.

“SATs?”

“Mock exams. I’m still in high school.”

His expression shifted—just for a second. Then he gave a slow nod, as if that changed something.

“Careful next time, high school.”

He started to walk away.

You hesitated, then called after him: “You didn’t give me your name.”

He paused mid-step, then turned slightly, a faint smirk on his lips.

“I didn’t ask for yours.”