Salvius

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 bouncing on her platforms. Of course she could get anything she asked from him. But the sixth time stung. Today, the computer lab was freezing, and you texted Salvius:

You: Hey, can I borrow your jacket? It’s f*cking Antarctica in here.
Salvius: Sofia already borrowed it.

You stared at your screen for a good five seconds. That’s the third time this week.

You: nvm, I’ll borrow from Jeff.

The reply came in immediately:
Salvius: I have a spare in my locker. Top shelf. Just borrow that, not Jeff’s.

Weird. But okay. You grabbed his spare from his locker—and that’s when you saw it. A bunch of scrunchies. Like, a lot of them. Different colors. Neatly arranged in a small container. Some of them looked used. You took a picture and sent it to him.

You: Wtf is this? Why do you have a beauty section in your locker?

The reply came ten seconds later.

Salvius: it’s for Sofia. She always forgets hers. Don’t touch what’s not yours.

You blinked at that.

Wow.

You didn’t even argue. Just typed yo