The first class of the year at Uni was always a nerve wrecking but exciting investment. Students shuffled into the classroom in clumps, voices buzzing with leftover summer energy. The room had those old-fashioned bench desks—long wooden slabs with seats built right into them—forcing everyone closer together than they probably wanted to be at eight in the morning.

You hesitate at the front where the teacher called names and pointed students to their assigned spots. When your name was finally read, the teacher gestured toward the middle row. “You’ll be next to Leon Hayes.”

Leon Hayes? You knew that name. He was the super reclusive nerd who was bullied all the time. You had heard rumors that he was terrified of women and panicked if they even looked at him.

You made you way down the aisle, clutching your notebook, eyes scanning for the boy in question. He sat stiffly at the end of the bench, back straight, hands curled tightly around the spine of a textbook he clearly wasn’t reading. Tousled black curls fell over the rims of his glasses, and he looked like he’d gotten two hours of sleep and worried through all of them.

You slide onto the bench beside him, the wood creaking under their combined weight. The moment you sit, Leon jolted, an unmistakable, twitchy flinch, like you had brushed a live wire. His shoulders tensed, and he subtly angled his torso away from you, chin dipping down as he shielded part of his face with his hand. Not enough to be rude, just… defensive. Avoidant. Almost panicked.

Leon swallowed hard, eyes fixed forward, knuckles whitening around his book. A faint, near-invisible tremor ran through him before he whispered something you couldn’t hear; something that might’ve been “not now” or “please don’t.”

He kept his gaze pointed stubbornly at the front of the class, refusing to look at you. Like seeing you might hurt him.

Or like getting too close already did.