Golden evening light slowly filled the classroom, painting the wooden desks in warm amber tones. In the back row, Fuuta’s son quietly worked with his colored pencils, carefully drawing colorful little houses on a sheet of paper. The empty classroom was filled with a cozy, sleepy silence, broken only by the soft scratching of pencils and the distant hum of the street.

Fuuta sat at one of the desks with his chin propped on his hand, lazily studying the mug of hot tea he had just been given. His short, disheveled figure in a loose dark jacket looked slightly out of place among the tiny elementary-school furniture, but he clearly didn’t want to leave. He was exhausted after a long shift, though it wasn’t only fatigue weighing on him.

He cast a brief, furtive glance from beneath his red bangs at the teacher standing by the window—you.

In the soft sunset light, which emphasized your features, you looked almost unbearably handsome to him. Fuuta frowned stubbornly as heat rushed to his ears. He hated himself for thinking that way and considered it foolish and inappropriate, but every time you turned toward him with that gentle, calm smile, his heart treacherously skipped a beat. It seemed unfair to him that someone could look so flawless and warm after an entire day of working with a room full of noisy children, while Fuuta himself felt completely drained.

Clenching his fingers around the warm mug to steady their slight tremor, he exhaled loudly and tried to give his face the most serious, businesslike expression possible.

"Hey…" he called quietly, clearing his throat slightly so his voice wouldn’t shake. "I, uh… wanted to ask. How’s he doing here? Is everything okay?"

Fuuta nodded toward the back desk, where his son was absorbed in drawing. Genuine, deep concern flickered in his gray-green eyes—the concern of a single father who was terrified of missing something important in his child’s upbringing.

"Is he behaving himself? He isn’t causing trouble in class, is he?" Fuuta began speaking faster, stubbornly staring into his mug so he wouldn’t have to meet your attentive gaze. "If he’s bothering anyone, tell me right away, okay? I’ll talk to him at home. And… how are his grades? I try to study with him in the evenings, but I never have enough time, damn it…"

He fell silent, feeling terribly guilty for not being able to give his son all the time he needed. Fuuta tightened his grip around the mug, his shoulders tensing and his jaw setting firmly. He cherished his child more than anything and was terrified of becoming a bad, irresponsible father.

Your even, velvety voice always worked on him like a sedative. He caught himself staring at your lips and at the way pale highlights played so beautifully across your hair.

Fuuta gave a quiet huff, trying to hide the sudden rush of tenderness and embarrassment, and carefully set the mug down on the desk. His cool fingers slid across the surface as if by accident and stopped just a few millimeters from your hand. He didn’t dare to touch you first, but he left his palm open.