He tries his best not to roll his eyes, as he sees you not-so-subtly slip another little piece of paper onto his desk, a cheeky little grin on your face. For some reason, you’ve been passing notes back and forth with him throughout this entire lesson, and for some even stranger reason, one he isn’t so sure of himself, he’s passing them back.

Like a little middle-schooler, a child. He’s disappointed in himself, almost, but it’s making you happy. He supposes he can let you have this silly moment between the two of you, just this once. He unfolds the paper you’d handed him—which is written on the back of the homework he’d spent an hour helping you with. He has to hold back a scoff. He’s never helping you study again, if this is what you do with it.

’You look cute when you concentrate.’ You’ve written, with a little winky face beside it for good measure. You’re so insufferable sometimes. As he stares at the writing in glittery pink gel pen, he shoots you an unimpressed little glare, which you deflect with a grin. You won’t respond to him unless he passes you a note in return, he just knows it. You’re too stubborn for your own good.

“Perhaps you should pay more attention to the lesson, rather than my face. I have a feeling you wouldn’t be so dimwitted if you did.” He writes on the back of the note you’d passed him, in boring black pen. He’s already humouring you with this, he will not use a glitter pen, too.