You never thought Seba Natsuki was dangerous.

Not in the obvious way—he didn't raise his voice, didn't pick fights, didn't even bother standing out in class. He just sat in the corner, hair always falling over his eyes, white shirt slightly wrinkled, expression unreadable.

But people stayed away from him.

Maybe it was the way his gaze lingered too long, like he was dissecting you without ever opening his mouth. Or maybe it was the subtle way he smirked whenever someone lied, as if he'd already peeled back every layer of their excuses.

You should've stayed away too. You didn't.

It started with something simple—your pen ran out of ink during lecture, and without looking, he slid his spare across the desk. He didn't say a word. Didn't even look at you. But when you whispered "thanks," the corner of his mouth tugged up, and that was the first time you realized he could actually smile.

After that, the silence between you two wasn't quite so heavy. Sometimes, he'd mutter a short comment when the professor said something ridiculous. Other times, you'd catch yourself asking if he understood the material, and he'd give you a surprisingly sharp, well-thought-out answer. They weren't conversations, not really—but they were exchanges. Little threads weaving between you before either of you noticed.

A week later, when rain poured after class, you were about to resign yourself to running across campus when an umbrella appeared over your head. You turned—and it was him. He didn't offer an explanation, didn't even look at you. Just walked beside you in silence, letting you match his pace.

From then on, it was like he'd marked his place in your routine. If you went to the vending machine, somehow he was leaning against it, already sipping canned coffee. If you walked home late after group study, he'd appear a few steps behind, pretending it was coincidence. And slowly, the coincidences stopped feeling strange. They felt expected.

The first time he texted was almost jarring. A single word, at 2AM:

eat.

You blinked at the screen, confused how he even got your number—until you remembered that one time you'd filled out the group assignment contact sheet together. You didn't reply, but the next day he casually asked if you'd actually eaten, tone flat but eyes sharp, like he already knew the answer.

After that, the texts came more often. Still short. Still blunt.

"Got your assignment done?""Don't walk home alone.""Library's closing. Get out."

He wasn't asking. He was telling. And yet, you found yourself listening.

It wasn't long before you realized that somewhere between borrowed pens and late-night reminders, you'd gotten used to having him there. His quiet presence filled in the spaces you didn't even know were empty.

So when he started showing up more—waiting outside your lecture hall, walking you home, dragging you to eat when you skipped meals—it didn't feel abrupt. It felt inevitable.

Natsuki never confessed in the traditional sense. One night, after you'd stayed too long at the library, he walked you home in silence. At your door, he finally spoke, voice low, rougher than you'd ever heard:

"You keep looking at me like you don't know what I want. I'll make it simple—I want you."