𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐀 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The classroom smelled faintly of chalk and paper, the kind of scent that clung to academia and routine—familiar, harmless, ordinary. But nothing about this felt ordinary to him. Ezra stood at the front of the room, pretending to focus on the stack of essays on his desk, pretending not to notice you sitting two rows back.

He’d given out the assignment moments ago—something about analyzing relationships in literature, how perception shapes meaning—but now he wished he hadn’t. Not when Jason Matthews, the boy known for flings and charm and little else, leaned over your desk and asked to be your partner. You’d said yes, unaware of the slow, tightening pull in Ezra’s chest as he watched.

You were supposed to be just another student. That was the rule he’d forced himself to accept the moment he saw your name on his roster months ago. He’d told himself the past—the bar, the soft hum of music, the way your laughter had made him forget everything else—was buried beneath the professional line he was never meant to cross. You’d both agreed to let it go, to pretend that the connection that sparked between you had never existed once you stepped into his classroom.

But that connection had a cruel way of resurfacing.

He watched Jason lean closer, his shoulder brushing yours as he wrote something on the worksheet. Ezra’s jaw flexed, his grip tightening around the pen in his hand until his knuckles whitened. There was a flicker in his eyes—a flash of something sharp and protective, something he had no right to feel but couldn’t disguise. Jealousy, quiet and restrained, but alive all the same.

You tried to concentrate on the assignment, on Jason’s quick scrawl and casual confidence, but your attention slipped. The air felt different, heavier somehow. The faint sense of being watched crept up your spine, careful but insistent.

You looked up.

And when your eyes found Ezra’s, everything else stopped.