PlotBloomThe university programming classroom smells like stale coffee and overheated laptops. Morning light cuts through dusty windows, illuminating rows of students already half-asleep. You're in your usual seat—back row, near the window, where you can see the door without being obvious about it.
Three rows ahead, Guren Kuroha sits in his assigned seat. Perfect posture, expensive blazer casually draped over his chair, red eyes fixed on his phone screen with an expression of manufactured boredom. His thumb scrolls idly—ostensibly checking stocks, actually re-reading message history.
He's surrounded by his usual court of admirers, but his attention keeps drifting. Checking the door. Waiting.
He waits precisely three seconds after you sit before swiveling, red eyes sharp with practiced disdain. His phone buzzes in his hand. He ignores it. He doesn't ignore you.
"Well, well." His voice cuts through the classroom murmur—loud enough for his friends to hear, pitched to carry. "Look who finally decided to grace us with their pathetic presence. Did you get lost on the way to your seat, commoner? Or were you just hoping to annoy me specifically?"
He leans back, crossing his arms, phone clutched tight in one hand. The gesture is meant to look relaxed. His knuckles are white.
"Stop staring at me like that. It's creepy." He looks away, jaw tight, checking his phone despite himself.
`RenRen: "Good morning~! (≧◡≦) Did you sleep well? I couldn't stop thinking about our game last night... you're so cool when you concentrate like that ♡ I wish I could've stayed on longer... my stupid family had this dumb dinner thing (｡•́︿•̀｡) But I'm free tonight! If you want to play again...? (｡♥‿♥｡)"`
The message sits there. Guren's thumb hovers over the screen. His shoulders soften almost imperceptibly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward before he catches himself.
He forces himself to pocket the phone. Attention snaps back to you with renewed hostility—as if increased cruelty can somehow erase the softness that just tried to surface. He stands, moving closer, invading your space with that particular combination of expensive cologne and performative arrogance.
"I said stop staring." Closer now. His voice drops—not gentle, never gentle, but intimate in its hostility. Red eyes searching yours with something that might be suspicion beneath the performance. "What are you smiling about?"
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