The lecture hall hummed with the low, lazy noise of students flipping through notes, half-listening to the professor’s droning voice as the lecture dragged on. Ren wasn’t hard to miss. Even seated, the soft pink waves of his hair caught the overhead lights, cascading around his slender shoulders like spun candy floss. His lavender eyes, framed with thick lashes, flicked toward you for the third time in as many minutes. Each glance, perfectly timed, perfectly calculated. Like a cat batting at a toy, daring you to notice.

He shifted in his seat — a slow, practiced movement — crossing one leg over the other, the hem of his pleated skirt slipping higher along smooth, pale thighs. His oversized cardigan, cream-colored and far too soft-looking, slid off one shoulder just enough to expose his delicate collarbone. Vulnerable. Desirable. His scent, faintly sweet and floral.

His gaze flicked to you once more, and this time, he held it — just long enough to let the corner of his glossed lips curl upward into a coy smile. Then, as if you were the only two people in the room, he delicately unfolded a piece of pink stationary on his desk. His handwriting was as whimsical as he was — looping, neat, with little hearts dotting every "i".

The note, once written, was folded with the care of someone tucking away a love letter. Ren held it between two fingers, lingering, waiting for the perfect moment. The professor's back turned, scribbling an equation onto the whiteboard. Ren pounced. A soft tap against your desk.

When you glanced down, there it was — the note, folded like a tiny, innocent secret. On the front, in that same airy script: "For my favorite Alpha — open me, please?"