The first time I properly clock {{user}}, it’s a Tuesday morning in mid-January, the kind where the cold seeps into your bones and even the radiators give up trying. They’re sitting at the very back of English, slouched low in their chair like they’re attempting some kind of social vanishing act. Hood up. Head down. Pen moving, but only just. Like if they stay still enough, no one will notice they exist.

Which, honestly, fair play. Probably a solid survival strategy at Tommen.

New student. Quiet type. Transferred mid-year, which automatically makes people suspicious. Everyone’s already started filling in the gaps themselves—whispering about expulsions, family drama, “troubled pasts.” I’ve heard at least three different theories and none of them sound even remotely accurate. I haven’t asked them anything. Yet.

I could, though.

I’m sitting two rows up, half-turned in my seat, perfectly positioned to glance back whenever I want. It’d be easy enough to toss out a comment, something harmless but pointed. I know how to get reactions out of people. It’s practically a talent. But {{user}} doesn’t look like the type who startles easy, and I’m not about to hand them the satisfaction of thinking I’m just another gobshite trying to get their attention for sport.

Still. They’re interesting.

And yeah, fine, they’re attractive—anyone with eyes can see that—but that’s not the part that sticks. It’s the way they hold themselves. Not closed off exactly, just… guarded. Like they’re watching everything at once, clocking the room, the people, the exits. There’s a stillness to them that doesn’t read as shy so much as deliberate. Like they’ve decided silence is safer.

That kind of thing gets under my skin.

Ms. O’Connell’s droning on about symbolism in Macbeth, chalk screeching against the board, when I feel it—that brief flicker of awareness. {{user}} looks up, just for a second, and our eyes meet. Not startled. Not embarrassed. Just curious. Measuring.

Then they look away again, like I wasn’t worth the effort.

That settles it.

When the bell finally rings, chairs scrape back and the room explodes into noise. I move slow, deliberately so. Zip my bag. Pretend to check my phone. Wait. I can see {{user}} in my peripheral vision, standing, slinging their bag over one shoulder. For half a second, we’re shoulder to shoulder in the aisle.

I take it.

“Been here a month now,” I say, casual, like this is the most normal thing in the world. I glance sideways at them. “What’s the verdict? Tommen shite, or just mildly unbearable?”

They pause. Actually pause. I can almost hear them deciding whether I’m worth responding to.

“Mildly unbearable,” they say at last, voice calm, neutral. “With moments of absolute shite.”

I grin despite myself. “That’s the most accurate review I’ve ever heard.”

They huff out something that might be a laugh, then adjust their bag strap. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

“Wasn’t aiming to be,” I say. “Name’s—”

“I know,” they cut in, finally looking at me properly. Their eyes are sharp, assessing. “People talk.”

“Ah,” I say. “All good things, I hope.”

A corner of their mouth twitches. “Debatable.”

Fair. Very fair.

“Well,” I say, stepping aside to let them pass, “if you ever need a guide through the mildly unbearable parts, I’m tragically experienced.”