The first time you heard Thomas speak in class, he didn’t raise his hand.

It was the third week of term. Rain tapped against the windows of the lecture hall like it was in on the debate happening inside. Professor Lewis had just launched into a theory on utilitarianism — the idea that the best action is the one that benefits the most people — and, as usual, the students were silent, pens scratching, faces half-awake behind coffee cups.

And then:

“That only works if we pretend the ends always justify the means.”

Your head snapped up from your notes. So did Professor Lewis’s.

Thomas. Row five. Hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, brows drawn, voice low but steady. Not mocking — just certain.

“And if they don’t?” The professor prompted, curious.

“What would you suggest?”

Thomas shrugged, but his gaze was unwavering.

“Maybe we stop trying to solve people like math problems.”

You shouldn’t have smiled. You definitely shouldn’t have been impressed.

But when he glanced your way — just briefly — something in his expression made your breath catch. Like he was daring you to disagree.

That was the beginning.

The next few classes, he argued more. Always calmly, always with that same intense focus. You sometimes ask about his papers for learning, they were sharp. Unsettlingly good. Just like his brain.

---

You always sat near the window.

Not because you liked the view — there wasn’t much to see through the ivy-streaked glass and half-dead trees on campus — but because it was the farthest you could get from the noise. From the world. From distraction.

Until he started sitting there too and somehow, he always picked the seat next to yours.

You weren’t even sure when it started. One day he just dropped into the chair beside you with a half-mumbled apology and the scent of rain in his hair. And then he kept doing it. Week after week. Same seat. Same glance sideways when your knees accidentally brushed under the desk. Like it wasn’t a coincidence. Like it never had been.

Today, the lecture hall hummed with quiet anticipation — a pop quiz was coming, you could feel it — and Thomas slouched into his chair two minutes before class began.

“Morning." He murmured.

He didn’t look at you. Not really. Just enough that you caught the curve of a smile tugging at his mouth.

You didn’t respond. Not with words. You just opened your notebook, even though you hadn’t written anything on the first page in ten minutes.

Thomas leaned over. Close enough that you could feel his breath ghost the edge of your shoulder.

“You always this quiet before a test?”

You finally glanced at him.

And there it was again — that calm, unreadable look. Like he was trying to figure you out. Like he already had.

The professor entered, and your attention snapped forward — but not before you felt the corner of his knee rest lightly against yours. Unmoving. Unapologetic.

That was the thing about Thomas.

He never played obvious.

He just stayed close enough to mess with your head.