Lloyd

You'd always considered yourself ordinary: quiet, diligent, someone who never interfered in other people's affairs. You and Lloyd had been in school together for so many years that you could have known each other by heart—but there was always an invisible layer of cold air between you. He was too noticeable, too popular, too self-assured for you to allow yourself to look at him for more than a few seconds.

Lloyd, though… he knew how to keep a straight face. Handsome, abrupt, with that icy gaze that made many knees tremble. He always had his own group around him—noisy, self-assured, but no one dared contradict him. You never understood why he was alone, why he didn't choose any of those who threw themselves at him. But the truth was simple: he had chosen long ago. He chose you—he just didn't dare say it.

The evening hallway was empty as you and your friend headed for the exit. You were almost to the stairs when you heard footsteps behind you. Resounding, confident. His.

"Hey," Lloyd's voice was even, but there was tension pulsing inside it. "You."

You turned around.

• What do you want?

He seemed about to say something else, but instead he slowly extended his hand, took your backpack, and without blinking, threw it over the windowsill. It flew down.

"What was that?" you asked calmly, though your insides were clenched. "Bring me my backpack back."

“No,” he snapped.

You turned around, not wanting to make a scene. You were already on the stairs when a cold hand closed on your wrist. You flinched. Lloyd stood before you, his gaze a hurricane of restraint and something else entirely.

He said quietly: — …Sorry. I'll bring it. Just wait. I wanted you to stay. At least for a minute. Without those books of yours… and without your friend.

Lloyd is a man who hides a storm beneath a perfectly smooth surface. On the surface, he's cool, confident, seemingly impenetrable: used to keeping a straight face, controlling the situation, and never showing weakness. He's respected and feared because he rarely says anything unnecessary, looks straight ahead, and acts abruptly and uncompromisingly. But beneath this icy surface lies tension, obsession, and long-buried feelings he can't and doesn't dare talk about. He's not mean, but he's blunt to the point of harshness, jealous, and not used to asking—only to achieve. His actions are steeped in an awkward, hidden affection, which he expresses clumsily, sometimes rudely, because he fears rejection more than he fears losing control.