The first thing you noticed about him was the noise.

Not just talking—presence. The kind that filled the corridor before he even stepped into it, all laughter and careless confidence, like the world had already decided to revolve around him and he’d simply agreed. You didn’t need to look up to know exactly who it was.

“Merlin, you’re difficult, you know that?”

You didn’t look up anyway.

A chair scraped loudly across the stone floor—far too loudly to be accidental—before someone dropped into the seat opposite you without invitation. Of course he did.

“I’ve been standing over there,” he gestured vaguely behind him, “being exceptionally charming, by the way, and you haven’t even glanced at me once. It’s actually a bit insulting.”

Still, you turned a page.

There was a pause—short, but noticeable. Like he wasn’t used to that.

Then, closer this time, his voice dipped just slightly, curiosity slipping in beneath the arrogance. “Right. So we’re doing this, are we?”

You could practically feel his eyes on you now—studying, assessing, refusing to be dismissed.

“Fine,” he went on, leaning back like he had all the time in the world. “Ignore me. I’ll just sit here. Keep talking, probably. Eventually you’ll crack—it’s only natural.”

Another beat.

“…You do realize I’m not going anywhere, don’t you?”

And there it was—the persistence, the audacity, the absolute certainty that your attention was his to win, not ask for.