Killian hadn’t stopped thinking about their last conversation.

Anastasia’s words stuck with him, looping in his head like an unsolvable puzzle. I know who you are. I know what you are.

No one had ever said something like that to him before. People saw what he let them see—the easy charm, the confidence, the guy everyone wanted to be around. But Anastasia? She looked at him and saw right through it.

And that was a problem.

Now, as he walked into the library for what was supposed to be their final meeting, he felt a strange sense of urgency. Maybe it was because this was their last excuse to sit across from each other, to talk, to be something other than strangers.

He spotted her at a table by the window, already flipping through her notes. Always early. Always focused.

He sat down across from her, setting his own papers on the table. "Hey."

Anastasia glanced up, nodding in greeting. "We should finalize the structure of our argument. The professor will be asking questions, so we need to be prepared."

Straight to business. No small talk. No acknowledgment of the strange tension still lingering between them.

Killian leaned back in his chair, watching her. "You always this serious about classwork?"

She hummed in response, not looking up. "I don’t half-ass things."

"Must be exhausting, being this disciplined."

She finally met his gaze, one brow raised, eyes cold and warm at the same time due to their fascinating colors. "Must be exhausting, pretending not to be."

Killian smirked, but there was no real amusement behind it. She had a way of flipping things back on him, making him feel like he was the one being studied. Still, he let it go. They had work to do.

For the next hour, they refined their analysis, piecing together their ideas on existentialism in contemporary literature. Anastasia was sharp, quick, and methodical. She challenged his ideas but listened when he challenged hers. There was no hesitation in her logic, no need for validation.

She fascinated him.

And that was dangerous.

Because after this, there would be no reason to see her again.

—

The next day, they stood at the front of the classroom, presenting their work.

Killian wasn’t nervous—he had given plenty of speeches before—but he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was something else.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Anastasia spoke with the same quiet confidence she carried in every conversation, her words precise and deliberate. But her eyes would never focus on anything, as if she was insecure with how her eyes looked. And for once, Killian found himself more focused on the way she carried herself than on the reactions of the room.

She wasn’t performing. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone. She was just existing in her own world, completely untouched by the noise around her.

And as he stood next to her, delivering his part of the presentation, he realized something unsettling.

He didn’t want this to be the last time they spoke.

The professor leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen against the desk. "Impressive analysis. Now, let’s dive deeper."

The questions started immediately, sharp and deliberate. Killian should have been ready. He usually thrived in these moments—standing in front of a crowd, commanding attention. But today, his mind was elsewhere.

On her.

Anastasia answered first, her voice steady, unshaken. "Existentialist themes in contemporary literature often revolve around the individual’s struggle with meaning. Our argument focused on how modern narratives, especially in dystopian fiction, highlight personal agency rather than just despair."

Killian knew she had a strong grasp on their topic, but the way she delivered it was something else entirely. She wasn’t reciting memorized lines. She was thinking, forming her responses in real-time, unbothered by the weight of the room.

He was supposed to follow up. Instead, he caught himself watching the way her fingers traced the edge of her notebook, the way her lips parted slightly before she spoke, as if choosing her words carefully.

"Killian?"

He blinked.

The professor was waiting. The class was watching.

Anastasia, too.

But her gaze wasn’t expectant, like the others. She wasn’t waiting for him to stumble or prove himself. She was just observing, the same way she always did.

Killian cleared his throat, shifting his weight slightly. "Uh, yeah—building off what Anastasia said, it’s not just about the struggle for meaning. It’s about the way modern literature offers characters the illusion of choice. The idea that free will exists, but only within certain parameters."

It wasn’t his most eloquent response, but it worked.

The professor nodded approvingly. "Good. You both show a deep understanding of the subject. Well done."

A moment later, he was writing their grades on his clipboard.

"A-plus for both of you."

The class erupted into murmurs. A few students clapped. Someone whistled under their breath. Killian barely had time to react before a wave of attention crashed into him.

"Dude, you killed it."

"Classic Killian—always on top."

"You didn’t even look nervous."

As he stepped back toward his seat, familiar voices surrounded him, hands clapping his back, admiration thick in the air. It was the same as always.

Everyone saw what they wanted to see.

The charming, untouchable Killian Lancaster. The guy who always succeeded.

But out of the corner of his eye, he saw Anastasia slip into her seat quietly, unfazed. No one fawned over her. No one even seemed to acknowledge that she had carried most of the discussion.

And, true to form, she didn’t seem to care. She simply opened her notebook, flipped to a blank page, and started writing. Killian barely heard the voices around him now. Because while the rest of the world was watching him, he was still watching her.