Chapter 6 - HARMLESS ACCIDENT

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The lecture hall was already half full when Ren walked in.

White coats brushed against each other, the low murmur of voices settling into silence as the professor entered. Ren took a seat near the middle—habit, not choice—and placed his notebook down with mechanical precision.

Then he saw me.

I sat one row behind him, slightly to the left, close enough that the edge of his awareness brushed mine the moment he settled. Hair tied back loosely, posture straight but not relaxed. I felt it before I saw it—the pause in his movement, the way his attention fixed itself where it always did.

I didn't look at him.

Maybe I never look away from him…

The professor began speaking, voice steady, outlining the day's lecture. Pens moved. Pages turned. I opened my notebook and wrote the date at the top, my handwriting even, controlled. Ren shifted in his chair.

He always did that when he realized where I was.

I kept my eyes on the board. The words made sense. They always did. What didn't make sense was the way his presence pressed against the back of my awareness like a weight I'd learned to carry without complaint.

At university, Ren liked accidents.

A brush of an elbow in the corridor.

A chair pulled out at the wrong moment.

A question asked just loudly enough for others to hear, framed so politely that it sounded harmless.

No one ever saw intent.

I wrote carefully, refusing to turn a page too loudly, refusing to give him even that. The professor asked a question. A few students raised their hands.

Ren didn't.

He already knew the answer. He liked knowing before anyone else.

I continued writing, careful not to turn a page too loudly, careful not to give him anything. When he leaned back slightly, his voice reached me without effort.

"Your notes are neat," he said casually, like we were acquaintances. "Did you switch pens?"

I didn't look up. "No."

A pause.

"You usually use black."

"I still do."

Another pause. I could hear the smile when he replied, softer now. "Then I must be imagining things."

Yes, I thought. You usually are.

The lecture moved on. Slides flickered across the screen. I copied them down, steady and precise. When chairs scraped and someone coughed, I didn't flinch.

Ren turned just enough to look back, the movement easy to dismiss as boredom.

Our eyes met.

For one second, I let him see that I knew.

Then I looked away.

The flicker of surprise on his face vanished quickly, replaced by that familiar spark—interest sharpening into something colder.

The lecture wasn't over yet.

And neither was he.

The lecture ended with the familiar scrape of chairs and low conversation breaking the silence. I closed my notebook, slid my pen into place, and stood with the rest of the row. Students began funneling toward the aisles, white coats brushing, bags bumping knees.

I waited.

I always waited a second longer than necessary.

When I stepped into the aisle, that was when it happened.

Someone bumped my shoulder—not hard, just enough to throw off my balance for half a step. My notebook slipped from my hand and hit the floor, pages fanning open.

"Sorry—"

The voice came too quickly.

Too close.

Ren.

He was already crouching, picking up my notebook before I could reach for it myself. His fingers skimmed the edge of the pages, pausing just long enough to notice how meticulous my notes were.

"Careful," he said lightly, handing it back. "You walk like you're somewhere else."

I took it from him without touching his hand. "I wasn't."

He smiled, straightening. "Then I must be in your way."

People were moving around us, no one paying attention. To anyone watching, it looked like an accident. A polite apology. Nothing more.

I met his eyes. Calm. Neutral.

"Yes," I said. "You usually are."

Something flickered across his face—surprise first, then amusement, bright and unmistakable.

He stepped aside, exaggeratedly courteous. "After you."

I walked past him without another word.

Behind me, I felt it again—that steady, unashamed gaze, following like a shadow that never quite touched.

He followed.

Not close enough to be obvious. Not far enough to be accidental.

I didn't turn around.

At the vending machines near the corner, I stopped. More out of habit than thirst. I slipped my card out, scanning the options without really seeing them.

That was when his reflection appeared in the glass.

"You're heading to the library, right?" Ren asked casually, stepping beside me as if he'd just happened to be there.

I pressed the cancel button. "Yes."

"Good," he said easily. "Then you can grab me a drink."

I looked at him then. Just once.

"No."

Flat. Simple.

I turned to leave.

"Akari—wait."

I didn't.

Behind me, his voice shifted. Louder now. Not enough to cause a scene—just enough to carry.

"Hey, it was just a question."

A few students nearby glanced over.

Ren laughed lightly, rubbing the back of his neck like he was embarrassed. "Wow. Okay. Guess I asked at the wrong time."

Someone slowed, watching. Another whispered something to their friend.

I stopped.

Not because of him.

Because I knew the look he was about to wear.

I turned back.

He was smiling—but softer now. Hurt, almost. The kind of expression people believed without thinking.

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to bother you. I'll get it myself."

There it was again.

Green tea. Perfectly brewed.

I stared at him for a second longer than necessary, then spoke quietly. "You don't need to perform."

His smile didn't falter.

"I'm not," he said gently. "You just misunderstand me sometimes."

Sometimes.

I stepped closer, lowering my voice so only he could hear. "No," I said. "I understand you very well."

For a moment, something dark flashed behind his eyes—quick, hungry.

Then it was gone.

He chuckled, light and harmless again. "See you in class."

I walked away without another word.

Behind me, I knew exactly what he was doing—standing there, watching, satisfied.

Because he'd gotten what he wanted.

Attention.

Even if I hadn't given it to him willingly.