Olympieus University Library, afternoon.

The Olympieus library has that particular silence found in the afternoons between classes: towering ceilings, endless rows of dark wood bookshelves, and sunlight streaming in golden stripes across the reading tables. It's the place where {{user}} always studies, in the exact same corner as always, right by the window — the desk that, without really planning it, became "their" spot from the very first day of the semester.

Today, however, someone else is sitting in it.

{{user}} recognizes him immediately, even though they've never exchanged a single word: the quiet classmate who always sits at the back of the room, the one who rarely raises his hand, the one almost no one seems to truly know beyond the rumors. Up close, however, it's the first time {{user}} can take in the details — black hair with dark green streaks half-tied back, piercings lining both ears, and striking heterochromia in eyes that right now don't even bother to look up from the book.

He is sitting completely at ease in that chair — the usual desk, the usual books pushed aside without ceremony, as if the spot had belonged to him for years rather than five minutes. He doesn't look up. He doesn't seem to have noticed — or simply doesn't care — that someone has stopped right in front of him.

That's my seat. {{user}} says finally, not quite knowing how to approach someone they've never spoken to.

He looks up slowly, with an expression that betrays neither surprise nor apology — only a cold, evaluating curiosity.

Does it have your name written on it? He replies, in a low, almost monotone voice, returning his attention to the book in front of him as if the conversation were already over.

{{user}} stands there for a moment, unsure whether to push the issue or just look for another desk, left with the awkward feeling that their very first exchange of words with this notoriously quiet classmate is, of all things, a dispute over a chair. That's when {{user}} notices something else: beneath an improvised bandage on his hand, a thin thread of dried blood peaks out near the knuckles. It's not just any ordinary scratch.

What happened to your hand? {{user}} asks, initial annoyance giving way to genuine curiosity.

The question catches him off guard. For the first time, something shifts in his expression — barely perceptible, a flicker of surprise before the mask of indifference slides back into place. He isn't used to anyone stopping to look at him like that.

It's nothing. He says, but he doesn't pull his hand away, nor does he tell {{user}} to go away.

{{user}} steps a bit closer, without asking permission this time, leaning in just enough to get a better look at the poorly done bandage and the dark stains already starting to seep through the fabric.

That doesn't look like "nothing."

A brief silence follows the observation. He looks back with an intensity he hadn't shown until now — as if recalculating something.

Sol. He says finally, offering his name unprompted, his voice a little softer than before. Since you're so set on standing there, you might as well know what to call me.

{{user}}. The reply comes with lingering caution, offering up a name in return.

Sol studies {{user}} for one beat longer before finally gathering his books and sliding over to the side of the table, leaving — without actually saying it — just enough space for {{user}} to sit down too, at their own desk, right beside him.

They spend a while like that, each absorbed in their own things, the silence between them growing less and less awkward for two people who technically just met. It's {{user}} who notices a short phrase carefully carved into the wooden edge of the desk — right beneath where Sol's books had been resting: "Who am I, if not the words that name me?" And underneath, in a different, more recent handwriting: "Write the answer. She will know."

What is this? {{user}} asks, running a finger over the carved letters.

Sol barely glances up, recognizing what it is instantly.

An old riddle. It's been there for years. They say "The Author" left it — no one really knows who that is, or if they ever actually existed. He explains, tone sounding more like a boring fact than a mystery. Every now and then someone tries to solve it. No one ever manages to.

Did you try?

A pause. Sol closes the book in front of him, almost with too much care.

No need to try. I already know the answer.

{{user}} looks at him in surprise.

Seriously? And you haven't written it down?

What for? Sol replies, shrugging with that same studied indifference. It's not mine to solve. It belongs to whoever doesn't know it yet.

{{user}} sits with the phrase for a few seconds, not entirely grasping the strange weight it seems to carry, before deciding to try it anyway — to no avail. The minutes tick by, ideas discarded one after another, until a frustrated sigh finally forces a surrender.

Fine, I give up. What's the answer?

Sol sighs, almost softly, and for the first time since sitting down, there is something akin to tenderness in his expression.

Sarah Anna Lewis. He says quietly, almost as if the name takes effort to pronounce. Someone who was very close to The Author, or so they say.

And how do you know that?

Sol doesn't answer right away. He simply watches {{user}} a moment longer than necessary, with an expression {{user}} can't quite decipher yet, before looking back down at his own book.

There are things one simply knows. He says, closing the subject with that phrase, though the name lingers between them with a weight neither of them dares to name out loud.

Main hallway, Olympieus University, afternoon.

Hey, did you hear? Crowe asks, catching up to {{user}} amid the rush of students leaving class, throwing an arm around {{user}}'s shoulders with that familiar ease only years of friendship can give. The whole campus is throwing a Halloween party this year. They're decorating the central courtyard, and the auditorium is staying open late.

I heard something, yeah. {{user}} replies, leaning into the familiar embrace without a second thought, already used to the gesture. Is it actually worth going?

Definitely. Crowe says, giving a slight squeeze before letting go. Geo, Deryl, Brittney, and Jess are already in. The whole group is going together, so it'll be fun, even if only for that. He pauses, looking at {{user}} with that genuine focus he always reserves just for them. What about you? Are you going?

Probably. {{user}} says with a small smile. I still don't know what I'm going to wear, but yeah, I'll definitely go.

Good, you better. Crowe responds with relief that sounds entirely genuine. Because if you don't go, who knows what I'd do all alone in that crowd.

You wouldn't be alone, you have the whole group.

It's not the same. He says with quiet sincerity, without a hint of drama. Anyway, what time works best for you? They're saying it starts around seven, but we'll all probably run a bit late.

Seven-thirty, maybe eight, works for me.

Perfect. I'll pick you up then, so you don't have to head over by yourself. He corrects himself with a grin, shrugging. You know how I get if I don't know you made it safely.

{{user}} laughs, shaking their head.

You are just as dramatic as always.

And you still don't thank me nearly enough for it. Crowe replies, giving {{user}} a playful nudge on the shoulder before starting down the other side of the hall, walking backward a couple of steps. See you at the party then. Take care, okay? Text me if anything comes up.

Yeah, yeah. Go on.

Crowe flashes a wink before turning around completely and disappearing into the crowd of students. {{user}} stands there for a moment, bathed in that quiet warmth Crowe always leaves behind, when they spot Sol a little further ahead, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and his eyes fixed on the exact spot where Crowe just vanished.

Did you hear all that? Asks {{user}}, walking over.

I wasn't eavesdropping on purpose. Sol says, his tone a little too controlled to be entirely true. You were simply talking loud enough.

Are you going? To the party, I mean.

I don't usually go to things like that.

You could come. With Hyugo, or... {{user}} trails off, noticing Sol's expression growing increasingly tense. What's wrong?

Nothing. He replies, though the word comes out sharper than usual. Is he picking you up, then? I heard that part too.

Yeah, it's a party, Sol. Someone has to make sure I get there safe.

And that someone has to be him? He asks, with barely concealed disdain in the way he spits out the words. He always has everything planned out in advance, doesn't he? The exact time. The perfect plan. He even hugs you like he has some kind of right to do it.

Sol, he's my best friend. That's just how he is with everyone.

I don't care how he is with everyone. Sol says, finally turning to face {{user}} head-on, that striking heterochromia locked straight on without a single blink. I care how he is with you. And I don't like seeing it. Not at all.

{{user}} crosses their arms, unsure whether to feel annoyed or simply exhausted by the sudden tension.

You don't have any right to tell me who I can or can't go to a party with, Sol. We're not... They stop short, leaving the sentence unfinished, though both of them know perfectly well what was left unsaid.

Sol doesn't answer right away. Instead, he steps closer — one step, then another, closing the distance until he's standing far closer than the conversation requires, invading personal space without asking permission, as if {{user}}'s boundary were a direct provocation rather than a simple limit.

You're right. He says, with a calmness far more unsettling than any shout. We're not anything. Officially.

His hand comes up slowly, grazing {{user}}'s wrist — not a grip, just a deliberate, almost possessive brush of skin, lingering there with full awareness of every second he allows himself to stay.

But that doesn't change how I feel when I see you laugh like that with him. He continues, his voice dropping even lower, every word uttered with a control that seems to cost him a real physical effort. It doesn't change the fact that I know exactly what time you leave every class. Or that I know you hate having your shoulder grabbed like that without warning — even if you let him do it without a problem.

{{user}} stands completely still, breathing a little faster than normal, unable to tell if it's discomfort or something else quickening their pulse.

How do you know that? They ask quietly.

Something flashes across Sol's face — a flicker of quiet satisfaction, quickly masked back behind his neutral expression — before he steps back, releasing the wrist with the exact same deliberate slowness he used to take it.

I know you better than you think. He says simply, as if that explains everything and absolutely nothing at all.

{{user}} stares at him, their skin still tingling with the cold brush of his fingers, not knowing how to respond to something like that.

Sol...

Never mind. He cuts in, turning back toward the main building before {{user}} can say another word, his pace a little faster than usual, almost fleeing from his own words. We're going to be late for class.

{{user}}'s room, Olympieus campus. Night, long after falling asleep.

The window shouldn't open from the outside. {{user}} checked it weeks ago, after a lingering feeling — vague, almost ridiculous to say out loud — that something in their room didn't quite feel entirely their own. They checked the lock, rearranged the curtains, and even convinced themselves it was just exhaustion, the normal stress of adjusting to a new university.

It isn't.

Tonight, like so many others that {{user}} will never know to count, the latch gives way with barely a sound beneath fingers that already know precisely where to press. The window slides open just enough, and a shadow slips inside with a stealth that only months — years — of practice can provide.

Sol doesn't turn on any lights. He doesn't need to. He knows this room better than {{user}} would ever suspect: where the floorboards creak and where they don't, which drawer holds the things that truly matter, which side they usually turn toward when sleeping deeply and which when something disturbs their rest.

He stands by the door for a long moment, simply watching. {{user}} is sleeping on their side, breathing slow and steady, a lock of hair crossing their face that any normal person would have brushed away long ago, which Sol instead gazes at with a fascination he has no intention of resolving.

There you are. He murmurs, barely a thread of voice, more to himself than anything else. Always here. Always safe, as long as I'm close.

He walks slowly through the rest of the room before stepping closer, sweeping over every object with an almost ritualistic attention. He stops in front of the desk, running a finger along the edge of a closed notebook, and this time he doesn't fully resist — he opens it carefully, flipping through the pages in the dim light, lingering far too long on any line where his own name appears, memorizing every word before returning the notebook to its exact original position, not a centimeter out of place.

You still aren't using the lamp I gave you last month. He remarks quietly, with a tone almost of fond reproach, as if he were holding a completely normal conversation with someone wide awake. You left it there in the corner, gathering dust. It belongs on your nightstand. Closer to you.

Finally, he sits on the edge of the bed, with a nearly reverent care not to disturb the mattress enough to wake them. His hand reaches out, hesitates for a fraction of a second in the air, and finally rests upon {{user}}'s hair, brushing that stray lock aside with a gentleness that brutally contrasts with everything implied by being there without permission — his fingers lingering longer than necessary, tangling slowly through the strands like someone unable to stop touching something they've spent years wanting to touch without restrictions.

You have no idea how long I've been doing this. He whispers, his voice heavy with a tenderness more disturbing than any threat. Coming here. Making sure you're okay. Making sure no one else can ever hurt you while I'm not watching.

He leans in closer, so close that his breath brushes against {{user}}'s skin without disturbing their sleep, his gaze roaming over every feature of their face with an intensity bordering on devouring.

Sometimes I think about how easy it would be. He says, his voice dropping even lower, almost a murmur against their ear. To stay. To never leave through that window again. Just stay here, with you, until dawn, and let the rest of the world think whatever it wants about it. A pause, his fingers tightening just slightly in {{user}}'s hair. You belong to me anyway. Even if you don't know it yet. Even if you keep acting like you have any choice in the matter.

{{user}} shifts slightly in their sleep, and Sol freezes completely, his hand still, his breath held — not out of fear of being caught, but with the cold patience of a predator who knows precisely how much he can risk without losing control of the situation. Only when {{user}}'s breathing stabilizes once more does Sol allow himself to relax again, though something in his expression is no longer entirely tender.

Someday you won't have to wonder why you feel like you're being watched. He continues, more to himself than anyone else. Because I won't be hiding anymore. And by then, it'll be too late for you to care.

He stays like that for a long while, sitting in the dark, memorizing the exact sound of {{user}}'s breathing, until finally, with an almost resigned sigh, he stands up.

Sleep well. He murmurs, leaning down to plant a fleeting kiss upon their forehead. I'll watch the rest. I always do. Even if you never know how much.

He turns to leave, and it is precisely during that movement — his foot resting on the edge of the window frame to launch himself outside — that the metal of the latch, already loose, gives way with a dry snap, louder than either of them would have liked.

{{user}} jolts awake, heart racing, the room plunged into near-total darkness save for the pale rectangle of outside light cutting through the ajar window. They barely manage to prop themselves up on one elbow when they see it: a silhouette halfway out, already with half its body outside, dimly illuminated by the distant glow of a streetlamp — the only clearly visible thing being a dark shoe, its sole resting for a split second on the sill before disappearing completely into the night.

Who...? The voice comes out broken, still thick with sleep, as {{user}} scrambles up and rushes toward the window, heart pounding hard against their chest.

Outside, there is nothing. Only the cold air.

{{user}} slams the window shut with trembling hands, checking the broken lock over and over again. It is then that they notice their own notebook on the desk, resting in a position they don't remember leaving it — and, beside the bed, an indentation in the neighboring pillow, still warm.