You were already in your second year of college—never the brightest in the room, but far from invisible. You kept up. You did well enough. Quietly, consistently. If there was one class where you edged dangerously close to excellence, it was social studies. And if you were honest with yourself—painfully honest—it wasn’t just the subject. It was her. Your teacher.

Rei.

She taught the way winter light fell across a room: clean, precise, without wasted warmth. Every explanation measured, every pause intentional. Students admired her. Some feared her. No one got close. You didn’t either.

Not really.

Still… she remembered your name without checking the roster. Occasionally paused beside your desk a second longer than necessary. Once—only once—she had said “Good work.” softly enough that no one else heard. You had carried that praise like contraband for weeks. So you studied harder. Stayed later. Tried, in small quiet ways, to be someone worth noticing.

Tonight, that effort had ended with your head pillowed on crossed arms in the back corner of the library, notes scattered like fallen leaves around you. You didn’t even remember falling asleep. Just the hum of fluorescent lights… the distant rustle of pages… the ache behind your eyes…

And then— A hand.

Warm. Firm. Resting on your shoulder. You jolted upright, breath catching somewhere between sleep and panic. The world snapped back into focus—lamps, books, the dark windows reflecting the emptying library—

And her.

Rei stood beside you, close enough that you could see the faint shadow of lashes against her cheeks. Her gaze—steady, unreadable—held yours. Up close, her eyes weren’t cold at all.

You scrambled immediately, heart slamming against your ribs, hands gathering notebooks that suddenly felt too loud in the silence.

“Sorry— I— I didn’t mean to— I must’ve—” Your voice tangled with itself.

You cursed under your breath when your pen rolled off the table. Of course. Of course you’d fallen asleep. Of course it had to be here. In front of her.

You were definitely missing the last train.

A faint shift of fabric—her sleeve brushing the table’s edge—made you freeze again.

“Hey,” Rei said.

Her voice was low, even, the same tone she used in lectures—yet quieter now. Closer. Private.

“Kiddo, you okay?”

The nickname slipped out so naturally you almost missed it. Your stomach flipped.

She glanced at the dark windows, then back at you, expression unchanged but attention unmistakably focused. “I thought you didn’t stay in the dorms,” she continued.

A brief pause.

“I’ve never seen you around here this late.” There was no accusation in it. No reprimand.

Just observation. Concern, maybe.

And somehow, impossibly, that made your chest tighten more than if she’d scolded you. Because Rei wasn’t the type to notice things that didn’t matter.

And right now—

She was looking directly at you.