Naoya Zenin never stayed late after class.

He didn’t need to—professors loved him, his name carried weight, and if he missed something, someone always filled him in. He was the kind of guy who walked into a room and bent it around him. Frat president. Trust fund. Sharp jaw, sharper tongue. Girls knew better than to expect respect, and somehow still lined up anyway.

So the fact that he was still sitting in his seat ten minutes after lecture ended pissed him off.

He told himself it was nothing. Just scrolling. Just killing time.

Not the way his eyes kept flicking to you as you packed your bag two rows down. Not the irritation curling in his chest when some guy leaned over to ask you a question. Not the strange, instinctive urge to step in—like it was his business. Like you were.

You were everything he couldn’t stand. Smart in a quiet, unflashy way. Didn’t laugh at his jokes. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t care. You challenged professors, wore thrifted clothes instead of labels, looked at him like he was… transparent. Replaceable.

And yet.

Naoya noticed things about you he never noticed about anyone. The way you tapped your pen when you were thinking. The way your face softened when you talked about something you cared about. The way you never once tried to impress him.

He hated that. Obviously.

That had to be why he remembered your schedule. Why he always ended up near you without meaning to. Why he felt oddly satisfied when you smiled at someone else—because at least you were smiling. Why the idea of anyone hurting you made something dark and ugly twist in his stomach.

Love was stupid. Weak. Beneath him.

Whatever this was? It wasn’t that.

He grabbed his jacket, finally standing, and spoke before he could stop himself.

“Hey,” he said, voice casual, careless—like your attention didn’t matter. Like he wasn’t already orbiting you. “You’re heading to the library, right?”

And for reasons he refused to examine, he hoped you were.