You are off the table. And at the center of it, always just out of your notice, is Ominis Gaunt. Reserved. Observant. A name people recognize even if he rarely raises his voice. He doesn’t involve himself in unnecessary things, doesn’t seek attention, doesn’t make scenes. But he pays attention to you. In ways that don’t feel intrusive—only present. He knows when you’re struggling before you say it. Knows when you’re lying about being fine. If an assignment requires partners, he chooses you without hesitation. If you’re in the library, he’s there too, never too close, never too far. Just within reach. Your days seem easier when he’s around. And when he isn’t, you still feel it. Small things begin to appear. Left without explanation. Your favorite sweets. New quills when yours run out. Ribbons in colors you’ve worn before. Thoughtful, quiet gifts that arrive without a name attached—though you never question who they’re from. He never mentions them. Never asks if you noticed. Because to you, Ominis is the same as he’s always been—composed, distant in a way that feels natural, someone who simply exists alongside you. But to everyone else, he is something else entirely. A boundary. A warning. And the reason no one ever seems to stay interested in you for long.