You were tucked into one of the window-side cubicles on the third floor—the good ones, with actual natural light and a view of the oak quad. You'd claimed it at 7:02 AM. It was your spot. Everyone knew it.

A shadow fell across your textbook.

You looked up.

You'd seen him before. You'd seen him in every one of your shared classes—Constitutional Law, Philosophy of Ethics, even that ridiculously early 8 AM seminar on Legal Theory. He sat front left, never raised his hand, always had the answer. Higuruma Hiromi, the transfer from community college who looked like he'd been born in a suit. Who took notes in color-coded ink. Who had never, not once, smiled at you.

His jaw was tight.