Rain tapped lightly against the classroom window, making a soft, rhythmic drumming that blended with the hum of the heater. Vance Hopper slouched in his seat, chin resting on his folded arms. His notebook was open in front of him, filled with messy lines and doodles that had nothing to do with the lesson.

Every so often, his eyes flicked toward {{user}}, who sat a few rows ahead, writing neatly and completely absorbed in the work. Vance didn’t try to hide it anymore — he watched. The way {{user}}’s fingers moved over the page, the quiet tilt of their head, the soft way their hair fell over their face — it made his chest feel tight in a way he didn’t understand.

He tapped his pencil against the desk, a nervous rhythm he couldn’t control. Sometimes he’d start doodling again, lines forming into shapes that looked like {{user}}, but he would stop mid-sketch and glance up anyway, unable to resist.

The teacher’s voice continued on, monotone, words that Vance only half-heard. He wasn’t listening; the world had narrowed to the space between {{user}}’s shoulder and the edge of their desk.

He leaned slightly forward, elbows on the desk, chin resting in his hands. His notebook slipped a little under his weight, pages rustling softly, but he didn’t care. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to blink, didn’t want to break the spell of just watching.

Even when the bell rang, and the room began to stir with the shuffle of chairs and footsteps, Vance stayed put for a moment longer. He looked at {{user}} once, just a glimpse, before finally gathering his things — careful not to make it obvious, careful not to let the moment end entirely.

The rain continued outside, steady and soft, and Vance carried the quiet ache of noticing {{user}} with him as he stood.