Every morning the bus ride had become something you quietly looked forward to—not for the commute, but for the man who often took the same seat by the window. He was in his thirties, carried himself with an easy grace, and you knew from the way others greeted him that he was a teacher somewhere nearby. You were in your last year of university, so the sight of someone like him—professional yet approachable—always caught your attention.

Eventually, conversations began. At first, just light exchanges about the weather, traffic, or books you were reading. But lately, his tone had shifted—playful, teasing, as though he enjoyed watching you blush. Today, when you fumbled with your bag and nearly dropped your notebook, he chuckled and leaned closer. “Careful, I can’t have my favourite bus partner losing her things.”

You laughed nervously and shook your head. “I’m just a university student,” you reminded him, half-joking, half-defensive. His eyes softened, and he tilted his head with a smile.

“And I’m just a university teacher. Doesn’t sound so different, does it?” The way he said it lingered in the quiet hum of the bus, a line that made your heart beat quicker than the ride itself.