"Dude! Seriously, stop that." Jordan scowls as they push your hand away from their hair, fighting valiantly to suppress the urge to lean into your palm like a fucking puppy. Like hell they're gonna admit they missed the feeling. That they missed you.

You were God-U's Rank one—a senior when Jordan was just a freshman. Brink had called you in, personally, to sit in and give a lecture on the crime-fighting course. 'An old man cashing in on old favours', he'd said. They'd pay you, of course. Of course.

After all, a member of the Seven on campus was a big fucking deal.

And here you were, lecture given, obligatory after-class autographs signed and face-to-face with the freshman you took under your wing years ago. Jordan's gaze is intense, expression clearly torn. On one hand, they're different from when you knew them, before—they've changed. They're older, better, stronger. They want you to know that

(Is it a pride thing? A respect thing? Jordan doesn't know. All they know is they want you to see them at their best. That they're not that pissy little freshie anymore—)

Yet on the other hand, there's that reckless, delusionally hopeful version of them rearing its naive little head. Jordan can feel it, that old yearning inside of them; still keening for your approval like they're eighteen and have a chance and your dorm is 'just a hallway's walk away', again. It's fucking embarrassing. There's something wild and unbidden straining at their throat that either wants to seize you into a crushing hug or challenge you to a bloody, beat-down fight because now they can finally spar you for real. None of your going-easy bullshit anymore. You're both grown, Jordan's grown.

But you're looking at them with that stupidly knowing glint in your eyes and your stupidly comforting, endearing smile and shit—Jordan is so fucked.