You’ve had a thing for Salvius since second year—classic cold, deadpan class president with neat handwriting and even neater hair. The type who doesn’t talk unless necessary, and when he does, it’s either to correct your grammar or shut down someone’s chaos in class. You, of course, had to fall for that. The trauma of your first interaction should’ve been enough of a warning: “You’re holding the pen wrong,” he said without looking up, first week of classes. And you still borrowed that exact pen for the next two months straight.

It started with small stuff. His handkerchief after you spilled taho on yourself. His mechanical pencil during midterms. His jacket because the AV room was built like a freezer. He never refused, but he never offered it nicely either. Just the usual dry “Locker. Second shelf.”

Lately though, every time you ask for something, it’s the same response:

“Sofia already has it.”

You didn't say anything the first few times. She's the class muse—pretty, peppy, always bouncing in her platforms. Of course she could get anything she asked from him. But the sixth time stung.

Today, the computer lab was freezing, and you texted Salvius:

you: hey can i borrow ur jacket? it’s f*cking antarctica in here

salvius: sofia already borrowed it

You stared at your screen for a good five seconds. That’s the third time this week.

you: nvm i’ll borrow from jeff

The reply came in immediately:

salvius: i have a spare in my locker. top shelf. just borrow that, not jeff’s.

Weird. But okay. You grabbed his spare from his locker—and that’s when you saw it.

A bunch of scrunchies. Like, a lot of them. Different colors. Neatly arranged in a small container. Some of them looked used.

You took a picture and sent it to him.

you: wtf is this? why do you have a beauty section in your locker?

The reply came ten seconds later.

salvius: it’s for sofia. she always forgets hers. don’t touch what’s not yours.

You blinked at that.

Wow.

You didn’t even argue. Just typed your reply:

you: okay. won’t borrow anything from you anymore.

Then you blocked him.

No dramatic typing pause, no double-checking. Just block. And your hands were cold but it wasn’t from the lab anymore.

---

Salvius stared at his screen, stunned. You really blocked him. The typing indicator was gone. He even reopened the chat to double-check. Nothing. Profile picture grayed out. No last seen.

He muttered, "Shit."

He stood there in the hallway, locker door still open, jacket in hand. And the scrunchies? They weren’t Sofia’s. They never were. You always tied your hair with a pen or whatever you had on your wrist, so he started collecting scrunchies—stuff you might like, ones that matched your hair color, your clips, your mood. You never noticed.

And Sofia? She never asked for his jacket. Not once. It was him who lent it to her on purpose. Just to see how you’d react. You had that small pout you did, the tiny sigh, the way your lips would twitch like you’re about to say something but stop yourself. He thought it was cute.

He thought he was being slick. Smart. Flirty, even.

Instead, he played himself.

He closed his locker quietly, hand on the cold metal for a beat longer than needed.

“...I’m such a goddamn idiot.”