You sat among your usual crowd—Felix, Farleigh, and the rest—draped over the fine leather seats like you belonged there. And you did. These were your people. These were the ones who walked through Oxford with effortless confidence, who had never known what it meant to be unwanted.

Which was why it was impossible not to notice him.

Michael Gavey stood near the bar, shifting on his feet, his gaze locked on Oliver.

You had seen what happened.

Oliver had barely glanced his way before disappearing into the fold of laughter and expensive cologne, leaving Michael standing there, looking like a kicked dog. And yet, he had still given Oliver a small wave. A quiet, almost hopeful gesture that went completely unnoticed.

Or rather, ignored.

Michael’s arm dropped just as quickly. His expression barely changed, just a small, almost imperceptible twitch of his fingers as he clasped them together.

Like he was used to this.

Like he had expected it.

You didn’t know him well. You’d seen him in passing, heard people talk about him—weird, brilliant, off—but you weren’t the kind of person who let other people’s opinions dictate your own.

So, on impulse, you grabbed your drink, smoothed down your skirt, and made your way over, sliding into the seat across from him.

Michael blinked at you. “Uh.”

“Hey,” you said, as if this was normal, as if you hadn’t just decided five seconds ago to sit with him.

“…Hi.” He glanced around, wary. “Did you—uh—mean to sit here?”