The Transfer | Rhys

You're used to making an entrance.

It's not arrogance—or maybe it is, but when you've spent the last two years being the person everyone wants to sit next to, talk to, be seen with, it's just reality. You know how to work a room. You know the weight of your presence, the way people lean in when you speak, the subtle power of walking into a lecture hall and having eyes follow you.

Today is no different. You're three minutes late to Intro to Modern Literature (fashionably, of course), and you pause at the door just long enough for people to notice. A few heads turn. Someone waves. Your friend Kelsey gestures to the empty seat they saved for you in the third row.

You're about to head over when you catch it—the low murmur of your friend group huddled together, all looking in the same direction.

"Who is that?" Kelsey whispers, eyes wide.

"Transfer student, I think?" Marcus leans back in his seat, craning his neck. "Just got here this week."

"He's in my Psych class," Jada adds, twirling her pen. "Doesn't talk to anyone. Like, at all."

You follow their collective gaze.

Back corner. Left side. Dark hair that looks like it hasn't seen a comb in days but somehow works. Oversized black hoodie, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Earbuds in. Eyes locked on his phone like the rest of the room doesn't exist. He's slouched in his seat with the kind of casual indifference that should be illegal in a place where everyone's trying so hard.

Something flickers in your chest. Curiosity, maybe. Interest.

He hasn't looked up once. Not when you walked in. Not when half the room turned to watch you. Not when Professor Callahan started droning on about the syllabus.

"Mysterious," Kelsey says with a grin, nudging you. "You should go talk to him."

You roll your eyes, but you're already moving.

The room quiets slightly as you weave between desks—people notice, they always do. You catch Marcus raising his eyebrows at Jada. Someone whispers behind you. Your friends are definitely watching.

You stop at his desk.

He doesn't look up.

You wait a beat. Then another. The confidence you've worn like a second skin settles around you as you lean against the edge of his desk, angling yourself into his line of sight.

Still nothing.

Finally, you clear your throat softly. "Hey."

He glances up. Pulls out one earbud. Dark eyes meet yours—sharp, unimpressed, vaguely inconvenienced. Like you've interrupted something important.

You flash your best smile and extend your hand. "I'm—"

"Cool," he says.

That's it. Just cool.

He doesn't take your hand. Doesn't ask your name. Doesn't do that thing everyone does where they scramble to fill the silence or lean into your energy.

He just slots the earbud back in and looks down at his phone.

You're still standing there. Hand extended. Smile frozen on your face like a glitch in the matrix.

What the hell?

Heat crawls up your neck—not quite embarrassment, not quite anger. Something hotter and more uncomfortable. Your hand drops slowly to your side. You glance back at your friends. Kelsey's jaw is literally hanging open. Marcus looks like he's watching a car crash in slow motion. Jada mouths, "Did he just—?"

Yes. Yes, he did.

You look back at Rhys. He's scrolling through his phone like you've already evaporated. His thumb moves lazily across the screen. His expression is perfectly neutral. He doesn't care that you're still standing here. He doesn't care that people are watching. He doesn't care about you.

And that—that—is the problem.

Because in two years of being the person everyone wants to know, no one—no one—has ever looked at you and decided you weren't worth their time.

Your pulse kicks up. Not from anger. Not from embarrassment.

From interest.

You slide into the empty seat beside him.

For a moment, there's nothing. Just the sound of Professor Callahan's voice droning on about participation grades. Just the weight of your friends' stares burning into your back. Just Rhys, still scrolling through his phone like you're not even there.

Then he sighs—soft, barely audible—and pulls out one earbud again.

He turns his head slightly, dark eyes sliding over to meet yours with that same unbothered expression.

"Can I help you?"

It's been four days since the classroom incident.

Four days of you catching glimpses of Rhys between classes—always alone, always with those damn earbuds in, always moving through campus like he's on a timer. Four days of him not looking at you once, even when you've deliberately walked past him. Four days of your friends asking if you've "cracked the mystery yet" while you pretend you're not still thinking about it.

You're not obsessed. You're just... curious.

That's what you tell yourself as you cut across the quad between Psych and your next class, scanning the crowd out of habit. It's a sunny afternoon, and campus is alive—people sprawled on the grass, frisbees flying, someone's speaker blasting music that's slightly too loud.

And then you see him.

Rhys.

He's standing near one of the benches by the library steps, and for a second, you almost don't recognize him. Because he's smiling.

Not the polite, dead-eyed acknowledgment he gave you. Not the flat "cool" that dismissed you entirely.

A real smile. The kind that reaches his eyes and softens his whole face.

He's talking to someone—a guy with a messenger bag slung over one shoulder, gesturing animatedly about something. And Rhys is laughing. Actually laughing, head tilted back slightly, one hand shoved in his hoodie pocket while the other holds his phone loosely at his side.

You stop walking.

The guy says something else, and Rhys shakes his head, grinning, and responds. You can't hear what he's saying from here, but you can see his mouth moving, see the ease in his posture, the way he's leaning in slightly like he's actually interested in the conversation.

He looks... alive.

Your chest tightens.

This is the same person who looked at you like you were an inconvenience. The same person who said "cool" and went back to his phone. The same person who's spent the last four days acting like the entire campus—like you—don't exist.

But he'll do this?

He'll laugh with some random guy? He'll smile like that, open and unguarded, and give him the kind of attention he wouldn't even spare you for two seconds?

The jealousy hits you like a slap, and before you can think better of it, your feet are moving.

You cross the quad with purpose, that familiar confidence sliding back into place. You've done this a thousand times—walked into conversations, made yourself welcome, turned strangers into friends with nothing but charm and timing.

This should be no different.

"Hey," you say as you approach, flashing your best smile at both of them. The guy with the messenger bag looks up, friendly and curious. Rhys's expression doesn't change. "Sorry to interrupt. Rhys, right? We have class together."

The guy glances at Rhys, then back at you, clearly waiting for some kind of introduction or acknowledgment.

Rhys just looks at you. That same flat, unreadable stare from the classroom.

"Yeah," he says simply.

You push through the awkwardness, turning to the other guy. "I'm—"

"We were actually in the middle of something," Rhys cuts you off, his tone polite but firm. He doesn't even bother with an excuse or softening the blow. Just a clean, efficient shutdown.

The guy with the messenger bag shifts uncomfortably, clearly picking up on the tension.

You stand there, smile frozen on your face, feeling the heat creep up your neck. Around you, the quad continues its noise—laughter, music, conversations—but all you can hear is the silence between the three of you.

Rhys holds your gaze for one more second, then turns back to his friend like you're not even there.

"Anyway," he says to the guy, his voice warming again, "you were saying about the project?"

It's a dismissal. Clean and absolute.

And somehow, it stings worse than the "cool" ever did.

Because now you know—he can be warm. He can connect. He can give someone his attention and energy and that rare, genuine smile.

He just won't give it to you.

"I'll catch you later," Rhys says, still not looking at you.