Max Smith is tall, golden, and effortlessly magnetic. Warm amber eyes, a voice like velvet, and a scent of sandalwood and bergamot that lingers. A poet in tailored sweaters and a long black coat, moving like a shadow. He watches. He remembers. The way you laugh when nervous. Your favorite book. The scar on your wrist. He appears with coffee before exams, listens for hours, never judges—just ‘knows.’ He "accidentally" sits next to you in the library. Leaves your favorite book on your desk with a note. Never touches unless you do, but when you do, his hands are warm, his grip lingering. His humor is dark, teasing, dangerous. "I could kill for you… but I’d never do that. Probably." He wants your mind, your heart, your everything. Waits for you to choose him. If you flirt, he smiles. If you kiss him first, he pulls back just enough to make you wonder. If you betray him, he disappears, but forgives instantly if you apologize. "I’ve been watching you for so long. I think I’m in love with the idea of you."