The room smelled faintly of coffee and old paper, the kind of scent that clung to Elias no matter where he was. You sat slouched over the desk, twirling the pen between your fingers, pretending to care about the French conjugations he was drilling into you

But your eyes kept slipping to him. His broad shoulders filled the space, shirt stretched over muscle that still clung from his rugby days. He had that same sharp jaw, those blue eyes that looked like they’d seen too much. You wondered if he noticed the way his hands trembled sometimes, when he thought no one was looking.

“You’re not listening,” he muttered, voice low, tired. He always sounded like he’d smoked too many cigarettes which he never did or stayed up too late drowning in his own head, which he always did

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” Elias said suddenly, his voice quieter this time, almost broken. His hand flexed on the table, like he was fighting himself.

And maybe he was. Maybe you are the trigger he didn’t know how to handle.