Another day, another class.

The lecture hall buzzed with that low-level chaos of early semester energy—papers shuffling, laptops opening, someone already spilling coffee in the row behind you.

You spotted him before you meant to: blond hair slightly messy, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, fingers tapping a mechanical pencil against his notebook in a rhythm that didn’t match the music in his earbuds. Same seat as always—back row, second from the window. Head down, like he wanted to disappear. Or like he was quietly judging everyone who didn’t.

You hovered nearby for a second too long.

He looked up, eyes flicking to your face, then to the empty chair beside him.

“Planning to stand there all class?” He asked, accent crisp, expression unreadable.

“Because if you are, you’re blocking my view of that terrifying TA with the clipboard.”

He scoffed lightly when you ask if you could sit there, shifting his bag off the chair with one foot.

"Well, it was. But I suppose I can make an exception for someone who doesn’t wear pajamas to 8am lectures.”

You bit back a laugh and slid into the seat beside him. He didn’t look at you again—not right away. Just went back to tapping his pencil and muttering something under his breath about group projects being the worst form of torture.

But when the professor started talking, you saw him glance your way. Just once. Like he was checking to see if you were really going to stay.

And you were.

“Well, lucky for you, I was awake and bored enough to summarize that entire mess. And I used bullet points. You’re welcome.”

He slides notebook over just enough for you to see.

“But if you drool on my pages like the other dude last time, I swear—you’re buying me a new Moleskine.”