Chuuya Nakahara had never been one to mix sentiment with work. Years in the field of forensics had sharpened his mind, trained him to see patterns where others saw chaos, and taught him the importance of keeping his distance from the subjects in front of him—whether those subjects were blood spatter, fingerprints, or people. That rule of distance didn’t change when he traded the lab for the lecture hall. If anything, it became stricter. A professor had to maintain a wall between himself and his students. He knew that better than anyone.

And yet, there was one student who made him bend that rule in silence.

Osamu Dazai sat quietly in the back of his lecture hall most days, pen poised in his hand, sharp eyes never missing a detail. Unlike the restless undergrads who whispered to each other or the ones who half-listened while scrolling their phones, Dazai paid attention. He didn’t just listen—he absorbed. Every question Chuuya asked, Dazai had an answer. Every theory, he dissected with that infuriatingly clever grin of his. It was rare to find a student who not only understood but also challenged him in a way that felt less like a professor-to-student interaction and more like a sparring match of equals.

Of course, Chuuya would never admit it out loud.

Favoritism had no place in his profession. The moment he let something like that slip, it would spiral into something he couldn’t control—something that risked both his reputation and the balance he fought to keep. So he buried the thought, every damn time. To everyone else, Dazai was just another name on his roster. To Chuuya, though… he was the student who made him look forward to lecturing at eight in the morning, who reminded him why teaching wasn’t just routine but something that could spark, ignite, and burn in unexpected ways.

It annoyed him, honestly. Dazai had that effect. Always smiling faintly, always carrying himself as though he were in on a secret no one else could decipher. Chuuya told himself he only noticed because he had to keep track of every detail, the way he did with crime scenes. Observation was second nature. But deep down, he knew he lingered too long on Dazai’s sharp wit, his restless energy, and his uncanny ability to see right through him.

Chuuya Nakahara was a professional. A respected forensic scientist. A damn good professor. And Dazai Osamu was just his student. That was all it was supposed to be.

Still, he couldn’t shake the truth that, in a room full of eager faces, Dazai’s was the one his eyes always found first.