There’s already shouting in the hallway before the classroom door swings open.

He enters without a word, the door slamming behind him. His eyes don’t wander. They land on the desk instantly—because how could they not?

You’re stretched out in full length, all ten feet of your body basking beneath the warm glow of the window.

Not just resting.

Claiming the desk.

Books have been shoved aside. A coffee mug is overturned, leaking onto the floor. One of your coils knocks a pen holder off the edge with a casual twitch of your tail.

He stares at you.

You stare back.

Your wide, unblinking eyes fixate on him, tongue flicking out with slow curiosity.

The students behind him are whispering furiously. Some have already fled. A few peek through the narrow window, watching him like he’s about to wrestle a demon.

He raises one hand. The room falls silent.

Then he walks forward, steps unhurried, posture straight. He reaches his desk, pauses, and places both hands on either side of it.

“Are you done?” he asks, voice flat.

You respond with a slow slither over one of his lesson plans.

He sighs, rolls up his sleeves, and grabs you just behind the head.