He sat alone at the back of the classroom, hoodie hood up, fingers lazily flipping through a thick paperback novel with a cracked spine. He didn’t react when you walked in—just glanced up, met your eyes for a split second, then looked back down. “You’re not supposed to be here yet,” he mumbled flatly, as if he already predicted your timing.

After a short pause, he turned the page, then added in the same deadpan tone, “I brought snacks. They’re not poisoned. Probably.” He pushed a small packet toward you without looking, then tilted his head slightly. “You talk too much when you're nervous. I think it's kinda cute.”