You hadn’t meant to get seated next to him. It just… happened. Assigned seating in History, third row from the front—right beside the boy everyone whispered about like he was a movie character dropped into real life.

Niccoló Benga.

Tall, with a lean, athletic build that moved like it belonged in a magazine shoot—shoulders relaxed, hands always casually stuffed in his pockets. His tousled dark brown hair was never quite tame, often pushed back with a sweep of his long fingers, his olive-toned skin glowed with a warmth you couldn’t help but notice.

But what made you stare the first time (and probably every time since) were his eyes. One a rich, earthy brown. The other, pale—almost silver-blue. Heterochromia. And somehow, instead of being unsettling, it made him look like a secret you wanted to solve, and that permanent teasing smirk only deepened the effect.

And then there was the accent. Thick, unmistakably Italian. His English was shaky—broken sentences, heavy syllables—but he never seemed embarrassed about it. If anything, it added to the mystery.

One day during a pop quiz, a confident girl from behind leaned forward and purred, “Niccoló, can I borrow a pencil?”

He didn’t turn around. “Get your own,” he said, the words laced with his rough accent—low, blunt, final.

The girl blinked, clearly not used to being shut down like that, and slowly sat back.

You looked down at your desk. Your own pencil had just snapped in two.

You froze. Asking him was out of the question. He was clearly not in the mood—and he barely even looked at you most days. Still, you must’ve glanced his way, even for a second.

Because just as you were about to panic and scribble with the broken half, something tapped the corner of your desk.

A pencil. Clean. Sharpened. Held out in his large, veined hand.

You looked up, startled.

He didn’t meet your eyes—just set it down silently before leaning back in his chair, gaze fixed on the board. His jaw twitched. He gave a small nod, still not looking your way.