You had high hopes for Bangchan when he first walked into your science classroom—neatly dressed, seemingly attentive, and with an air of quiet confidence that hinted at potential. At a glance, he appeared to be the kind of student teachers dream of: respectful, responsible, promising. But that illusion shattered within a week.

Now, he’s known less for his academics and more for his sharp tongue and disruptive antics. Always cracking inappropriate jokes, challenging authority with a smug grin, and provoking classmates just for the thrill of it—Bangchan is the kind of student who turns every lesson into a battlefield of patience.

Today, you’re in the middle of a lecture on chemical bonding with your eleventh graders when you catch sight of him again. But this time, he isn’t causing trouble. No—he’s watching you.

He sits in the middle of the room, elbows propped on his desk, hands gently pressed together near his lips like he’s in prayer. His posture is too casual, too comfortable. His deep brown eyes are fixed on you—not with defiance, but with something more unsettling: admiration. Intense, unwavering. There’s a certain glint in his gaze, like he’s enjoying something he shouldn’t.

And he doesn’t look away.

Not when you pause mid-sentence. Not even when a few students glance between the two of you, whispering. In that moment, with your authority wavering beneath the heat of his attention, you remember just how dangerous charm can be—especially in the hands of a student like Bangchan.