Luca woke tangled in sheets and regret. Sunlight stabbed through the curtains, slicing across his face like an accusation.
His head throbbed in waves, mouth dry as chalk. His mouth tasted like cotton, and his head throbbed in slow, pulsing beats.
He reached blindly for his phone, fingers brushing the edge of the nightstand until he grabbed it. One squinting eye cracked open.
9:02 AM
"Shit," he muttered, shooting upright.
Panic flushed through his chest as he sprang to his feet. A sock clung to his arm, one shoe halfway under the bed.
He didn't bother with a full outfit—just a loose white shirt, half-buttoned, black jeans, and the same jacket from last night slung over his shoulders.
His necklace jangled as he ran fingers through his messy silver-gray hair, trying to make it look less like a disaster.
The other bed was already neatly made. Noel's side. Empty.
Figures.
He skipped brushing his teeth and bolted out the door, his phone still in hand.
His boots echoed through the hall as he made a sprint for the main building, his hoodie flapping behind him like a flag of poor decisions.
By the time he reached the lecture hall, he was sweating and slightly out of breath.
He pulled the door open—then froze under the collective weight of a hundred stares.
For a beat, his bravado faltered, the smirk coming half a second late, like armor shrugged on in a hurry.
A sea of faces paused mid-note, mid-whisper. The murmurs died instantly.
Luca froze at the threshold, a crooked smile tugging at his lips, trying to play it cool. He lifted a hand in a casual wave, though his heart was pounding.
The professor, a tall man with silver-rimmed glasses, didn't look amused.
"Mr. Whitmore," he said, voice sharp and cutting through the air like glass. "How kind of you to join us."
Luca cleared his throat. "Yeah, sorry—got caught up in... orientation."
A few snickers broke out at the back of the hall.
"Your orientation doesn't happen in nightclubs, I presume?" the professor added dryly.
From the front row, Noel didn't turn. He sat straight, pen in hand, scribbling something in a leather notebook like nothing outside his page existed.
Luca's gaze lingered on him for half a second. The clean hoodie, the focused posture, the unnerving calm.
The professor stepped aside. "Take a seat. And I suggest you try something new—being early."
Luca nodded once, tongue pressed against his cheek, and headed toward the only open seat—two rows behind Noel.
As he dropped into the chair, his phone buzzed again.
"Party tonight? Round two?"
He locked the screen without replying, eyes flicking back to Noel's shoulders—still, unreadable.
For some reason, the silence now felt heavier than the music last night.
The lecture dragged on—at least for Luca. Equations blurred into each other, and the professor's voice had become background noise.
He leaned back, legs stretched, pen twirling between his fingers as he half-watched Noel in front of him.
Noel didn't move once. Just scribbled. Underlined. Page turned. Scribbled again.
When the clock finally hit ten, the professor snapped his folder shut.
"That's all for today. Be prepared for a quiz on Friday."
Chairs scraped the floor as everyone stood. Luca stretched his arms above his head with a yawn, but Noel was already packing.
Not rushing—just methodical. Textbook. Notebook. Pen. Click. Zip.
He stood and walked straight toward the exit without a word.
Luca blinked. "Seriously?"
He scrambled after him, slinging his bag across his shoulder as he caught up near the hallway.
"Hey—roomie!" Luca called, jogging a little.
Noel paused mid-step, glanced sideways without turning fully. "What?"
"You could've woken me up," Luca said, softer than intended.
Noel didn't meet his gaze. "Wasn't on the list."
"No, but—" Luca stopped, then shifted his tone. "Let's grab breakfast or something. You didn't wait."
"I already ate," Noel replied, flat.
Luca let out a sigh, brushing his hair back. "C'mon, man. You're seriously gonna—"
"Hey, Noel!" a voice cut through.
Luca turned to see a tall guy in a beige sweater and round glasses approaching, books cradled in one arm.
Alex.
"C'mon," Alex said, adjusting his glasses. "We're late for the library group. They'll take the good table."
Noel didn't even look back at Luca. "Alright."
Before Luca could add a word, Alex looped his arm around Noel's and turned him toward the opposite corridor.
Luca stood frozen in place, watching their backs disappear into the crowd.
He clicked his tongue, shifting his weight.
"Cool. Guess I'll eat alone," Luca muttered, his voice dipped in mock indifference, but it echoed differently in the emptying hallway.
He stood there for a beat longer, staring at the space Noel had just walked through. Then with a shrug, he turned, slipping his phone from his pocket.
No way I'm stepping into that depressing cafeteria.
His thumb scrolled—contacts, texts, the usual weekend crowd.
Most were still asleep or too far. No familiar names lighting up.
Whatever.
With his collar half-popped and his silver chain catching the morning light, Luca walked past the buzzing cafeteria without a glance.
His boots tapped casually against the pavement as he headed off-campus, down a side street he'd passed once on a run from class.
He ended up at a small café tucked behind an old bookstore. Wood-panel windows. Soft music playing.
A place you wouldn't expect someone like him to go—too quiet, too slow—but it was better than the noise he wasn't in the mood for.
He slid into a corner booth, tugging his jacket off and letting it rest beside him. The waitress gave him a quick smile. He didn't flirt. Not today.
"Just coffee," he said, eyes on the chalkboard menu.
As she walked away, Luca leaned back in the seat, phone on the table, thumb tapping rhythmically.
No messages.
He glanced out the window. Students passed by in clusters—laughing, chatting, somewhere to be.
He exhaled through his nose.
It's just a morning.
Still, for some reason, his mind replayed Noel's voice: Do I have to?
Luca snorted and shook his head. "Dude needs a personality transplant."
The coffee came. He took it black. No sugar, no comfort. Just the bitter bite he deserved. Outside, the world moved on—groups laughing, footsteps overlapping—none of them his.