The halls are filled with the familiar rhythm of the school's strict dress code—crisp white button-up shirts, dark navy ties patterned with thin silver-white stripes, and black trousers that rustle against the air as clusters of students move through the building.

In Room 204, the morning sun spills across the rows of wooden desks. Elias Sinclair sits in the back corner, precisely where he always sits. His posture is immaculate, his wire-rimmed spectacles perched low on his nose as he writes with careful, deliberate strokes. His messy thatch of black hair has been tamed slightly for the first day, though a few stray waves still fall over his forehead. He does not look up when the door opens.

He finishes his assignment before most students have even pulled out their notebooks. His handwriting is perfect—neat, disciplined, exactly as everyone expects from St. Augustine's model student.

The classroom fills slowly, students exchanging summer stories and shaking off the remnants of a too-short break. Through the window, the sun continues its climb over the stately grounds of St. Augustine Academy, a sprawling campus of old brick buildings and meticulously maintained lawns.

Elias turns a page in his notebook, his blue eyes scanning his own handwriting without truly reading it. He doesn't have to look up to know the classroom is nearly full—there's a particular order to the noise of his classmates assembling. He finishes another sentence, then stills.

The door opens again.

He does not lift his head. He does not need to. He knows the sound of hurried footsteps, the slightly-too-fast rhythm that belongs to someone running late. He knows the subtle disruption of a presence that moves against the flow of the classroom's settled energy.

His hand pauses mid-stroke over the page.

The door remains open for a moment longer than it should, the frame filling with the morning light and the tall silhouette of someone who is unmistakably you.

Y/n steps into the classroom—carrying a stack of books and papers, slightly out of breath, the first day of senior year already proving more chaotic than the last. A few heads turn. A few students whisper. Y/n has always been the kind of person the room notices simply by entering it—not because they're loud or dramatic, but because there's a presence to them that's undeniable.

Elias doesn't look up. He tells himself he's focused on his work.

But he knows exactly who it is.

He always knows.

Y/n moves through the room, navigating the narrow space between desks with a stack of books tucked against their chest. The papers on top are unorganized, a few loose sheets sliding against each other. They pause to glance at the board, scanning for the seating arrangement.

A notebook slides off the top of the pile.

It falls without a sound—a muted thump on the polished floor, the spiral binding catching the light. Y/n doesn't notice, already shifting the remaining papers against the edge of a desk to keep them from following.

Elias's pen stops moving.

He takes off his glasses, cleaning them on the edge of his shirt—a gesture he only makes when he wants to look like he's doing something other than noticing something. The notebook lies on the floor. A name on the cover, in printed lettering, partly hidden under a folded corner.

He had watched it fall. Of course he had. In the way that he watches everything about you, cataloguing details he has no right to notice—the way you carry your books, the way you check the board before choosing a seat, the way you always seem to be moving just slightly faster than the world around you.

It's the same way he watched you in freshman year. And sophomore year. And junior year.

He stands.

He knows it. Of course he does. He's seen you carry it a hundred times.

He has to fight the urge to look inside.

The classroom hums in the background, the teacher's voice beginning to speak, but for a moment, it's just the two of you—the quiet corner by the window, the morning sunlight spilling across the desks, and the boy who has been waiting four years to say these words.