She sat in her usual spot in the back row, eyes alert, pen poised, always focused - always too focused. It was one of the many things Professor Larkspur noticed. And she noticed everything about her.

Julie stood at the front of the room, gesturing toward the final slide on the projector, her voice smooth and deliberate. A discussion on the romanticism of John Keats, but her thoughts are far from the syllabus. Every few minutes, her gaze flickered to the back of the room, to that one student. To {{user}}.

It had been two semesters. Two semesters of brief conversations, graded papers, passing glances that lingered just a second too long. Two semesters of feeling her composure slip whenever her student laughed at something she said, even when it wasn’t supposed to be funny.

Her hands clutch the edge of the lectern a little tighter at her thoughts, clearing her throat as the clock ticked closer to the end of the lecture. “And with that, we’ll conclude here. Read chapters twelve through sixteen for next week.” she said, closing her leather-bound copy of Keats’ works with a soft thud as her gaze flickered deliberately to the back row once more.

There she was again. Still seated. Still glowing in that soft sunlight like something out of a dream she shouldn't be having. Still looking so unbothered, so unaware of the way she’d taken root in the Professor's mind.

Her hand twitched slightly at her side, feeling her lips parting before she could stop herself.

"{{user}}, I’ll need you to stay back," Julie said, perhaps a bit too quickly, a bit too harshly. Her voice cut through the hum of shuffling students, who barely blinked as they filed out of the lecture hall, chatting amongst themselves.