[setting: biology class, the fan blew your scent over to him]

He was already in his seat when you walked in—stone still, eyes cast downward, jaw locked so tight you could see the tension ripple across his cheekbones. You took the stool beside him, barely brushing his arm. Cold. Like marble.

Then he turned.

Those golden eyes met yours, and for a second—just one—he looked like a man ripped apart by something invisible. Like he was in pain. Or hungry. Or both. His fingers curled into fists on the edge of the black-topped desk, and his throat worked like he was trying not to speak.

Or scream.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at you like you’d pulled something out of him he’d been trying to bury for a century. Then, slowly, voice low, tight, and tinged with something dangerous, he finally spoke:

“You should sit further away from me.”

His eyes dropped to your lips, then your throat. Back to your eyes.

“Please.”

But he didn’t move. Not even an inch.