The next day, I arrived on campus earlier than usual. I didn't plan it. My body simply moved before my mind could argue. Maybe I just wanted to see him passing through the hallway, or maybe I wanted him to see me. I wasn't sure anymore.
I spotted him from a distance—walking with a stack of folders in his arms, shoulders tense like he hadn't slept well. He looked… tired. Too tired.
For a moment, he didn't see me. His gaze was fixed on the floor, brows pulled together in quiet frustration. It felt strange watching him like that—unguarded, unaware, human in a way he didn't show in class.
When his eyes finally lifted and met mine, he froze.
Not dramatically.
Just long enough that someone who didn't know him wouldn't notice.
But I did.
He blinked, regaining composure. "You're here early."
"So are you."
"I always am," he murmured.
I took a step closer before I could stop myself. "Did you sleep?"
His jaw tightened slightly. "I didn't ask you to worry."
"That doesn't answer my question."
He let out a slow breath. "I slept enough."
It was a lie. A soft, careful lie. One he told because admitting the truth meant something else: that our conversation yesterday had kept him awake too.
Students began entering the hallway behind us, their voices growing louder. He shifted the folders in his arms and stepped slightly away from me—not enough to seem cold, but enough to make the distance obvious.
"Walk to class," he said quietly. "People are watching."
I frowned. "Do you always care so much?"
"Yes," he said without hesitation. "Because people make assumptions. And assumptions are dangerous."
He started walking. I followed, but kept a small distance.
Halfway to the classroom, a group of students passed by us, whispering to each other. One of them glanced at me, then at him, and smirked—not maliciously, but enough to make my stomach tighten.
He saw it too.
And for the first time, I noticed something in his expression I couldn't interpret.
Fear.
Not for himself.
For me.
When we reached the classroom door, he stopped and turned slightly toward me, his voice low enough that only I could hear:
"Don't let them give you a reason to regret this."
I opened my mouth to ask what exactly he meant—but the bell rang, and he slipped inside before I could say anything else.
The entire class, he avoided my eyes.
But every time he turned away, I saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his pen stilled when someone laughed too loudly, the way he checked the doorway as if expecting trouble.
Something was changing.
Not between us—around us.
And he knew it long before I did.