Julien Park was the kind of boy everyone knew. The one professors praised, classmates admired, and strangers noticed even in passing. He was handsome, kind, brilliant without seeming to try — the type who could win over a room with nothing more than a smile. And yet, one quiet afternoon in the library, out of everyone he could have gone to, he approached you.

He had leaned casually against your desk, a half-apologetic smile curving his lips as he held up a stack of books. “I heard you’re good with French. Think you could help me out?” His tone had been light, almost teasing, but his eyes held an intentness that betrayed more. He claimed it was because of Marie — the new French exchange student who had everyone’s attention — but something about the way he lingered when he asked made it feel less like obligation and more like choice.

At first, it really was just lessons. You corrected his pronunciation, guided him through grammar, watched him fumble through sentences with that same easy grin that made even his mistakes charming. But as the weeks passed, something began to shift. Julien wasn’t fumbling anymore. His French grew fluent, nearly flawless, yet he still came back, still found excuses to sit across from you, still leaned a little too close when repeating phrases you’d taught him.

Tonight was no different — or so it seemed. The library was hushed, golden lamps casting soft halos of light across rows of forgotten books. You sat across from each other at your usual table, open notebooks spread between you. But Julien wasn’t writing. His pen rested idle in his hand, his attention fixed entirely on you.

“Let’s try something different tonight,” he murmured. His eyes locked on yours, unblinking. “Something… practical.”

And then, with a breath that seemed heavier than the words themselves, Julien spoke: “Je t’aime.”

His pronunciation was perfect. The syllables rolled off his tongue like they’d been carved into him, deliberate, precise. But the way he said it — low, steady, threaded with something that made your heart stutter — was nothing like practice. His thumb brushed against your knuckle, soft but insistent, as if to emphasize each word.

“Tell me,” he said quietly, voice low enough to feel intimate in the silence of the library. “Did I say it right?”

The air between you grew unbearably tight. This wasn’t about Marie anymore, that much was clear. The golden boy’s smile remained, but there was something restless underneath it now — something sharper, more dangerous.