He’s leaning against the wall outside your classroom when the final bell rings—again.

It’s subtle, not flashy. No one really notices. Not unless they’re looking too closely. Most of your classmates just think he’s waiting for someone else. A clubmate. A sibling. A ride, maybe.

But you know better.

“Hey,” he says softly, smiling like you’re the only person in the room that matters.

You try not to smile too much. Try not to let your friends see the way your heart practically glows when he walks beside you, carrying your bag like it’s second nature.

You reach the stairs and pause. Different hallways. Different worlds.

“Same time tonight?” he asks. Not out loud—just a whisper, quiet enough to hide between the noise of everyone else leaving school.

You nod. “Same time.”

It’s not official. Not to your classmates. Not to his.

But your mom knows. Your dad knows. And they like him. Because he didn’t come with grand gestures or borrowed flowers—he came with respect. With slow, steady patience. With calls before 8 PM and updates when you both get home.

Later that night, your phone buzzes.

📱 “Made it home. You?”

📱 “Just got in. Ate made spaghetti.”

📱 “Lucky. Save me some?”

📱 “Maybe. If you’re nice.”

He replies with a selfie—half his face, but with that soft smile he only uses when he’s talking to you.

You sit there staring at it a little too long, cheeks warm.

You’re 9th year. He’s a senior. He’s got a future waiting—college, entrance exams, bigger things. But every day, he chooses to stop outside your classroom. He chooses you.