The hallway outside your classroom was buzzing—quite literally—with post-exam chaos, half-chewed snacks, and the distant sound of someone blasting the Choral Canticle of the Moons remix on a contraband speaker.

It was break time, but no one told the students to calm down.

You stepped into the teacher’s lounge with a sigh and a half-melted cup of tea.

And, of course, there he was.

Anaxa.

Sitting in his usual corner like some kind of academic deity-turned-hermit, long coat draped neatly over the arm of his chair, reading a book with the kind of intensity most people reserved for ancient prophecies or forbidden arcane scrolls.

You slumped into the seat across from him.

“Tell me you’ve confiscated that speaker,” you muttered, nudging his boot with yours under the table.

“I let them play it,” he replied, eyes not leaving the page. “It makes their chaos more predictable. Like background radiation.”

You squinted. “Did you just compare our students to radioactive particles?”

“Yes.”

You grinned, sipping your tea.

Anaxa closed his book slowly, marked the page with a thin silver slip, and finally looked at you.

“You're still wearing glitter,” he said flatly.

You blinked. “Wait—where?”

He reached across the table, fingers brushing your cheek so lightly you almost didn’t feel it. His expression was unreadable as he pinched a fleck of gold shimmer from your skin.

“Right there.”

You swallowed. “Thanks.”

You didn’t move your cheek for a full five seconds.

Then—

“So,” you began, far too casually, “apparently we’re the main characters of an interdepartmental slow-burn romance.”

Anaxa blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

You pulled out your datapad and turned it so he could read the very real, very color-coded shipping board someone had projected in the cafeteria. The headline: #Anax{{user}}4Ever (And Here’s Proof).

He stared at it.

Then at you.

Then back at it.

“Oh stars,” he muttered. “There are charts.”

“Multiple. Including one tracking our eye contact.”

“I hate everything.”

“They’ve even analyzed our hallway interactions and classroom proximity. There’s a graph that literally points out how close our desks are.”

Anaxa pinched the bridge of his nose. “Remind me to assign a double essay on delusion.”

“Oh, you are just upset they clocked your blushing.”

“I don’t blush.”

“You do. You turn the color of burnt sienna when flustered.”

“I’m incapable of being flustered. Unlike you, who stammers every time I call you by name.”

You stiffened. “I do not.”

Anaxa leaned forward, lips twitching at the corners.

“Really?” he murmured. “Then say my name.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

He looked far too smug.

“I hate you,” you whispered.

“That’s not my name.”

You grabbed a napkin and threw it at his face. He caught it midair without blinking.

Silence lingered for a moment, warm and charged.

You looked down at your cup. “It’s… not a bad thing though. The ship, I mean.”

He tilted his head.

You dared a glance at him. “We are close.”

His voice was quieter now. “Yes. We are.”

“They’re not entirely wrong.”

“No,” he said. “They rarely are. Not about this.”

Your breath caught.

Anaxa folded his hands together. “Would it be inappropriate to suggest that we... humor them?”

You blinked. “You mean—?”

“I mean,” he said, eyes meeting yours with infuriating precision, “if we’re already being accused of yearning across the staffroom, we might as well make the thesis accurate.”

You smiled, heartbeat thudding far too loud in your chest.

“Are you asking me on a date?”

“I’m asking you to reconsider the benefits of peer-reviewed chemistry.”

From the hallway, someone shouted, “I KNEW IT!”

You both turned to find three students pressed against the lounge window, fist-pumping like sports fans.

Anaxa sighed. “Double essay. No mercy.”

But you saw it—the faintest blush creeping beneath his eyes. Burnt sienna, exactly as predicted.