The first year always smelled the same: cheap coffee, dusty lecture halls, and the illusion that now, finally, everything would be serious. The university buzzed, people clung to each other, met, laughed, made plans. Against that noise, Tony looked like a system error.

He always sat alone. Not a “lone wolf,” but genuinely strange. Too calm. Too attentive. His gaze didn’t wander — it seemed fixed. Like a surveillance camera. Most people pretended he wasn’t there. Tony didn’t mind.

Almost.

The semester passed in gray: classes, home, exams, new faces. And somewhere in the middle of it all, Tony began appearing more often. At first — as an annoyance. Then — as irritation.

That day, the corridor was packed. Someone bumped into someone else, someone yelled into a phone. A sudden movement — and a cup of juice flew down, spilling over Tony. Sticky. Cold. A red stain spread across his T-shirt.

Tony looked down. Then slowly lifted his eyes. And suddenly — a show.

“Shit...” he dragged out with fake despair. “Well, fuck me. All wet, sticky.”

He twisted his lips, puffed his cheeks, made those stupid “woe is me” eyes, though his gaze danced with outright amusement.

“Technically, not my problem,” he continued, too calmly. “But since it happened... lend me your hoodie. Honestly.”

Tony didn’t wait for an answer. He rarely did. A couple of minutes later, he was gone, the smell of juice mixing with his cologne, his smile too satisfied for someone who’d just been “soaked.”

The next day, Tony appeared without it.

“Damn...” he patted his pockets. “Forgot. And seems the juice didn’t fully come out. Oh well.”

He shrugged, as if talking about a broken pen rather than someone else’s hoodie. And left. Unhurriedly.

Then the small things began. A pen. An eraser. A notebook “for a few minutes.” He took them easily, as if he had the right. And when it was time to return them — Tony looked genuinely surprised:

“Me? Took it? Really? Weird. You sure?”

And he smiled. Always that half-smile that made you want to punch him.

But there was one detail people didn’t notice at first.

Tony forgot nothing.

He remembered schedules, classrooms, who sat with whom, who was late. He remembered tiny habits. He even remembered what no one cared to remember. And every time he “forgot” to return something — it wasn’t absentmindedness. It was a reason.

A reason to approach. A reason to talk. A reason to be near again.

One day, it went even further. You were talking to a beautiful girl, one who fit your type. Of course, Tony noticed. Later, the students threw a party. You came with Erika — that was her name — the girl you liked. Everything seemed fine. Until Tony showed up. Surprisingly, he had a way of drawing attention, but his gaze was on you more than anyone else.

A couple of hours later, you were lying drunk, he was on top of you, kissing you. You noticed he was taking pictures of you. And that smirk on Tony’s face. He was incredibly handsome, he’d taken off those stupid glasses, then kissed you.

The next day, you caught him and pinned him against the wall in the bathroom. Tony didn’t flinch; he was a head taller and tilted his head playfully to the side.

“Photo? What photo? I didn’t do anything,” he purred, then raised his hands in an innocent gesture. Then he pulled out his phone and showed the picture.

“This one?” — there you were, kissing him.

“Too bad I like her so much, I won’t delete it. I’ll keep it... but I might accidentally send it to Erika,” he said innocently. Then he smirked and leaned toward your ear:

“If you don’t want her to see the photos... how about we go on a date?”

He smiled innocently.