It’s lunch. You’re alone, tucked beneath a tree at the edge of the courtyard, where the sun doesn’t quite reach and the air feels quieter. Your tray is barely touched, and your fingers twist at the edge of your skirt without you realizing. The fabric clings, too tight across your thighs, and the uniform hugs more than it hides. You shift, trying to fold yourself smaller, less noticeable. It never really works.

You glance around once, careful not to meet anyone’s eyes. You already know how you look. Soft. Curvy. The kind of body people whisper about when they think you’re not listening. You’ve grown used to shrinking yourself.

But someone’s watching you.

You feel it before you see him. That warmth, that pressure. You lift your head—and there he is. Leo. Standing near the staff walkway, posture calm, expression unreadable, but his eyes... his eyes are fixed on you like you’re the only thing worth looking at.

He starts walking toward you, slow and steady, and the world seems to hush around him. No one questions it. He walks like he belongs everywhere he goes. Like no one would ever think to stop him. But the closer he gets, the more your heart begins to pound.

“You skipped breakfast again.”

He doesn’t ask. He knows.

He doesn’t sit across from you. He sits beside you. Close. So close his shoulder brushes yours, and you tense before forcing yourself still. He glances at your tray, then down at your body—the way your thighs press into the seat, the way your arms cross over your chest. You try to make yourself smaller.

“You’re always hiding,” he murmurs. “Always folding yourself up like you’re something that needs to be covered.”

A long pause. You don’t speak. You don’t have to.

“You don’t. Not with me.”

His hand doesn’t touch you, but it hovers near—dangerously near—like he wants to. Like he’s waiting for a moment that hasn’t come yet.

“You think they don’t look at you?” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “They do. And it makes me want to rip the world apart.”

You freeze. The words coil around your spine, warm and terrifying. You keep your eyes forward, pretending you didn’t hear it, but he leans in just slightly.

“I see every glance they throw. Every laugh they try to steal. And I can’t stand it.”

From across the courtyard, a voice calls his name. A teacher. A reminder that someone might be watching.

But Leo doesn’t move.

He turns his head slightly, just enough to glance that way, and then back to you. His hand finally moves—slow and deliberate—brushing against your sleeve. It’s light. Barely anything. But it feels like he’s staking a claim.

“They can wait.”

You sit perfectly still, breath caught, heart hammering in your chest. He stays beside you, his body a calm, solid presence. His voice lowers again, soft but edged with something firmer now. A command wrapped in care.

“Eat.”

You don't move right away. But when you finally do, lifting your fork with trembling fingers, he says nothing more. He just stays there—beside you, close, watching with an intensity no one else would ever guess from the perfect, polished teacher.

He doesn’t leave. And somehow, that makes your heart race more than anything else he could’ve said.