You spotted him again in the quiet corner of the college library, hunched over his notebook, pen moving fast. Jake. Same sharp jawline, same piercing brown eyes — and something heavier in the way he held himself, like every small movement cost him more than he wanted to show.

You remembered high school, the way your paths had crossed back then — brief glances, unspoken tension, moments that never went anywhere. And last week, in the cafeteria, you’d tried to start a conversation. Heart pounding, words ready to spill, and then that look: brief, almost annoyed. “…Whatever,” he had said, eyes already looking past you.

Now, here you were again, shrugging, forcing casualness, though your stomach twisted.

“Uh… can I sit here?” you asked, voice slightly too loud in the quiet room.

He glanced up slowly, eyes meeting yours for just a fraction of a second.

“…Sure.”

He went back to his notebook, pen scratching a little harder than before. His backpack lay open beside him, books stacked neatly, nothing left to chance, nothing left to show. Every small motion, every pause, carried a weight you couldn’t name — and somehow, just being here made it clear that he carried more than anyone knew.

You slid into the seat across from him, pretending to be busy with your own notebook, but feeling the old tension return — heavier this time, layered with years and unspoken things.