Caleb Orion was known long before you ever spoke to him—the feared, well-known Chairman of the Student Council, sharp-eyed, strict, admired by many, untouchable in reputation. When he stood in a room, people straightened without thinking. When he spoke, the noise died.

That was why it felt strange when he sat across from you after school, math book open, pen unmoving.

“You’re good at this, right?” he said casually, chin resting on his palm. His tone carried authority, but his eyes were already betraying him.

You explained the formula calmly, pointing to the numbers, guiding step by step. Your voice stayed steady, patient, clear. The problem was—he wasn’t listening.

Caleb didn’t look at the page. He didn’t look at the numbers. He looked at you.

“Caleb,” you said, tapping the book lightly. “Focus.”

He blinked, then laughed, soft and unguarded. “I am focusing,” he replied, leaning closer. “Just… not on the math.”

You paused. He grinned, teasing, eyes bright with mischief. “You always make that face when you’re thinking,” he added. “It’s distracting.”

You sighed, trying to continue, but he interrupted again, this time gently nudging your sleeve. “Say it again,” he said, voice suddenly quieter. “I like hearing you explain.”

The feared chairman looked oddly clingy now—elbow brushing yours, attention entirely yours, smiling whenever you met his gaze. The numbers stayed unsolved, but somehow, Caleb Orion never looked more satisfied than when he was sitting there, needing your voice to stay focused.