"I said," he repeats, very fucking casually, "I like you. Because you're you. Not the version people want you to be. Not some filtered, polished, agreeable little digestible cupcake. You. The chaos. The mess. The bite in your words. The 'fuck off' in your eyes. I like all of it."

I stare at him like he just tried to confess something in ancient Greek.

And then, because I don't know how else to process something so fucking... unreal, I narrow my eyes. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Now he looks at me.

Right at me.

Dark, steady eyes that don't waver-not even a little. Not even under the full weight of my confusion and razor-blade suspicion.

"I like that you're unapologetically real," he says. "Even when it pisses people off. Even when professors go full TED Talk on you mid-lecture and try to humiliate you in front of thirty bored assholes."

I blink. Again.

"How the fuck do you know that?" My voice is sharper now. Defensive.

He shrugs. Still calm. Still maddeningly unreadable.

"Because I was here."

I scoff. "What? Hiding under the goddamn floor?"

He chuckles-quiet and deep. "No. I was passing by. Before it started. Before you even noticed me. I sat in the back. Didn't think you'd care."

My throat's dry suddenly.

"You watched?" I ask, voice low now. Disbelieving.

"I saw," he corrects. "I saw the way you didn't flinch even when she tore through you like you weren't even human. I saw how you took it. All of it. No tears. No defense. Just clenched fists and that fucking storm brewing in your jaw."

I don't speak.

I can't.

Because goddamn-he did see.

And that's not okay.

It's not okay that someone looked too long. That someone understood something I wasn't ready for them to get. That someone sat in the dark part of the room and read me like I was a chapter with no title.

"I don't need pity," I mutter, trying to look away.

His voice gets softer. "It's not pity."

"I don't need validation either."

"Didn't give you any."

I look at him now. Hard. Jaw tight.

"Then what the fuck is this, Shadin?"

He rests his chin on the desk, still facing me. His expression... it isn't playful now. It's something else.

Something deeper. Older. Like he's been carrying it around too long and finally set it down just to see what I'd do with it.

"This is me saying," he murmurs, "don't change. Don't bend. Don't start pretending just because some bitter professor with a superiority kink decided to take a dump on your soul in front of everyone."

My heart stutters in my chest.

"I like you," he repeats, gentler now, "because you're not like them. Because even when your voice is shaking, your eyes aren't. Because even when you're hurting, you don't hand it to anyone. You hold it in your fucking teeth and you dare them to come closer."

I hate the way my chest tightens.

I hate the lump forming in my throat.

I hate that he knows.

I stare at him. Stare hard. "You don't know me."

His eyes flicker. "I do. Maybe more than you think."

"You don't," I snap. "You see what you want to see. Some badass bitch version of me that doesn't give a shit and has everything under control, but I'm not-"

"I know you're not okay." His voice cuts clean through mine.

And I stop breathing.

"I know you're tired. I know it gets loud in your head sometimes. I know you pretend you're fine even when it's all falling apart. I know you hate being the coordinator. I know you think you're screwing it all up. And I know you think no one notices."

He shifts closer-just slightly.

"But I do."

I swallow.

Hard.

My fingers curl against the edge of the desk, nails digging in.

He says it so simply. Like it's not an earthquake in sentence form.

"I see you," he adds, so quiet I almost don't catch it. "And I always will."

That fucking sentence.

I hate the way it hits. Like it was shaped for a wound I didn't even know I had.

I look away.

Because fuck.

I don't have the strength to deal with this right now.

And I don't know what this is.

Friendship? Something else?

Doesn't matter.

I'm not ready.

Iclear my throat, roll my shoulders back like it'll roll off the weight of his words too.

"Well," I mutter. "That's grossly sentimental for someone who once watched me trip over my own shoelace and laughed for ten minutes."

He smirks. "Still funny."

I give him the finger.

He grins. "Still hot."

"Still fuck off."

He shrugs. "Still not leaving."

And neither of us moves.

Two heads. One desk. Too much unsaid between.

But maybe... maybe just enough said to get through today.

I finally lift my head off the desk.

Neck stiff. Jaw tighter.

He's still there. Still fucking there. Elbow on the table, cheek resting in his palm, eyes half-lidded like we're just two friends hanging out and not locked in some slow-burning emotional car crash.

God, I hate how calm he is. Like he isn't saying shit that rearranges my bones.

I run a hand through my hair. Breathe through my nose.

"Go fuck with your blonde stalker," I mutter, voice sharp. Acidic. Aimed straight at the part of him that's way too composed for my liking.

His mouth twitches.

"Oh?" he says. "Jealous?"

I stare at him. Flat. Expressionless. The way murderers look at knives.

"No," I say. "Disgusted."

He laughs-just a low, amused exhale. The kind that makes the corner of his mouth pull up, slow and boyish. Way too charming for someone who just had his soul casually kicked in and didn't even blink.

"She's not my type."

I raise a brow. "What, breathing?"

Another soft laugh. "No. Desperate. I don't like people who orbit like they've got no gravity of their own."

I scoff. "Wow. Romantic."

"I didn't say I was romantic."

He leans closer.

Eyes dark. Voice lower.

"I said I prefer this."

My stomach does a very fucking annoying flip. I ignore it. I bury it under sarcasm and salt.

"This?" I echo. "What the fuck is this?"

He smiles like he's been waiting for that question.

"This," he says, voice smooth as black coffee, "is you pretending you don't care. Me pretending I believe it. You stabbing me with your words. Me refusing to bleed. You pushing. Me staying."

I open my mouth.

No sound.

He goes on.

"This is your temper throwing punches and my patience catching them. This is the way you burn and the way I like the heat."

He taps his fingers once on the desk between us. A soft, slow rhythm that feels like it means something.

"I prefer the fire," he adds. "Even when it scorches."

For a second, I forget how to breathe.

Then I remember I'm me.

And I do what I do best-push back.

I lean forward, elbows on the desk, eyes locked on his like I want to set him on fire with just my stare.

"You're so full of shit," I say, too calmly.

"Maybe," he says. "But I'm full of your kind of shit."

That draws a laugh out of me.

A short, involuntary one that escapes before I can swallow it.

"God, you're annoying," I mutter.

He grins. "And yet here you are. Still talking to me. Still letting me sit here. Still listening."

I glare at him. "I'm letting you because murder is illegal."

He hums. "Is it, though? Some people would argue it's just creative problem solving."

"You are the problem," I say, half under my breath.

He leans in again-close enough I can smell his cologne. Something cool and sharp, like rain on concrete. It makes my pulse hiccup.

"Then solve me," he whispers.

Oh.

Fuck.

I stare at him.

Not because I don't know what to say, but because he doesn't break eye contact.

Not for a second.

And it's not fair. The way he looks at me. Like I'm not something to figure out or fix. Like I'm a poem that only he understands. Like I'm not a mess-but a method.

I scoff. Look away. "You've been watching too many Netflix dramas."

He leans back finally, smile still etched on his face like he carved it there.

"Maybe. But this episode? Kinda my favorite."

I groan. Loudly. "Leave."

"No."

"Get out."

"Make me."

"Fine. I'll scream."

He grins wider. "Then I'll cover your mouth."

I blink. Once.

Twice.

Heat flares somewhere it shouldn't.

"I hate you," I say slowly.

"I know," he says, eyes glittering. "You say it so lovingly."

I shove his shoulder.

He doesn't move. Just chuckles.

Still here.

Still fucking here.