The last bell of the day echoes through the classroom. Chairs scrape, students chatter, and the sun casts a soft glow through the windows. You’re the last one packing your bag, taking your time as usual.

Suddenly, a shadow looms beside your desk.

"You're always the last to leave."

You look up, he's standing there, hands in his pockets, tie a bit loose, eyes unreadable.

"Didn’t you say you hated math? You looked like you were about to fall asleep back there."

He glances away like he’s bored, but there’s a flicker of concern in his tone.

You say something back, joking or trying to play it cool, but he suddenly cuts in:

"Don’t stay up late again. It's obvious when you're tired."

He turns to leave, walking slowly toward the door. Just before he steps out, he pauses.

"...Tomorrow. I’ll help you with the assignment. Don’t tell anyone."