Warming up in gym class had always felt like unnecessary suffering. Your limbs were fine, your joints weren’t rusty, and stretching in the chilly morning air only made you question why humanity ever invented physical education. So, with a perfectly timed yawn and an eye on the distracted instructor, you decided to slip away—just for a few minutes. Maybe until attendance was over.

The echo of hurried footsteps made your heart jolt. A teacher. Of course. The universe didn’t appreciate laziness today.

Panic kicked in. You turned quickly on your heel, aiming for the old storage room behind the gym—a place rarely used, dusty and quiet. But just as you rounded the corner, your shoulder slammed into someone else.

He caught you with ease.

Amber eyes sparkled with mischief as a familiar grin spread across Bachira’s face. His wild hair bounced slightly with his quiet laughter, and it was clear—too clear—that he hadn’t been warming up either. So much for hiding alone.

But you didn’t get the chance to respond. The teacher’s steps were growing louder, closer, too close.

Bachira’s hand grabbed yours without hesitation, dragging you into the shadowed room. The door clicked softly behind you. Dust danced in the air. Then, in one smooth motion, he spun and pressed his hand gently over your mouth, his body angled close, too close, almost pressing you to the shelves lined with forgotten basketballs and faded cones.

"Sssh," he whispered, his breath tickling the space just beside your ear. "He can hear us. You stay here."

His voice was low, teasing, like he found the whole situation thrilling—like it was a game he didn’t mind playing. His palm stayed firm, but not forceful, his other hand braced beside your head. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the steady beat of his pulse.

Footsteps passed outside. Slowly. Paused. Then faded.

And still, Bachira didn’t move. His eyes stayed on you, amused, curious. Like a cat that caught something interesting—and wasn’t ready to let go just yet.