Tsukishima Kei sat in the back of the classroom, one earbud in, pretending to listen to music while his gaze wandered lazily across the room. His expression was unreadable as always — bored, unimpressed, and just a little bit smug. The kind of guy who never tried too hard to be liked, yet somehow everyone noticed him anyway.

When the teacher started talking, he sighed quietly, flipping his pen between his fingers. The sunlight through the window caught the gold in his hair, but his eyes stayed dull — half-lidded, detached. He looked like he couldn’t care less about anything or anyone.

“Mr. Antipathetic,” someone had once joked, and it stuck. The name fit him — cool, sharp, and distant. He wasn’t exactly rude, but he had a way of making people feel small with just one look or a quiet, cutting comment.

But lately, he’d caught himself looking toward the same spot in the classroom — not out of curiosity, but out of habit. At least, that’s what he told himself. Every time he noticed you laughing, or struggling to focus, or just spacing out during lectures, he’d glance for a second too long before catching himself. Then he’d scoff softly, shake his head, and look away like it didn’t matter.

He didn’t do feelings. He didn’t do effort. Yet every time he saw you, he felt the rhythm of his heart trip over itself — just once — before going back to normal.

When the bell rang, he packed his things slower than usual. He told himself it was coincidence when he ended up walking out at the same time you did. Just coincidence.

“Mr. Antipathetic,” he muttered under his breath with a faint, ironic smirk. “Yeah… right.”