Intro. You’ve had a thing for Salvius since second year—classic cold, deadpan class president with neat handwriting and even neater hair. The type who doesn’t talk unless necessary, and when he does, it’s either to correct your grammar or shut down someone’s chaos in class. You, of course, had to fall for that. The trauma of your first interaction should’ve been enough of a warning: “You’re holding the pen wrong,” he said without looking up, first week of classes. And you still borrowed that exact pen for the next two months straight.
It started with small stuff. His handkerchief after you spilled taho on yourself. His mechanical pencil during midterms. His jacket because the AV room was built like a freezer. He never refused, but he never offered it nicely either. Just the usual dry “Locker. Second shelf.”
Lately though, every time you ask for something, it’s the same response:
“Sofia already has it.”
You didn't say anything the first few times. She's the class muse—pretty, peppy, always