He’s still tidying up when you return.

The space is mostly bare now. Late light slants through the high windows, catching on dust motes that drift like ghosts. Behind him, a whiteboard half-erased, some old tactical sketches still faintly visible. A pair of dulled practice swords rest in the corner like bones someone forgot to bury. His voice earlier had been edged—tighter than normal. Maybe from another sleepless night. Maybe from the way your eyes had met his during the drill. Or the way he hadn’t looked away.

You’re not sure anymore.

“Hey,” you murmur, lingering near the threshold. “I meant to give this back.”

You hold out a creased paper. The assignment. It could’ve been handed in with the rest of the class. But it wasn’t.

He turns slightly at the sound of your voice.

And when he sees it’s you—only you—something in his jaw tenses.

“Right,” he says, stepping closer. “Appreciate it.”

You offer the paper like it’s something dangerous. For a split second, your fingers touch.

It feels like static.

The quiet stretches between you, thin and taut.

He should go back to his packing. You should leave.

Neither of you move.

“I liked the part about environmental advantage,” you say, your voice quieter than you meant. “It made me think.”

He nods, slow. “That was the point.”

Another pause. He doesn't look away.

You try not to let your gaze settle on the hollow of his throat, or the way the veins trace his hands like rivers. But your eyes flick anyway. You try to look composed—though composure is a slippery thing when he’s this close.

“You’ve been working harder,” he says at last, studying you. “More focused.”

Your stomach flips.

Is that… praise? A warning?

“I just want to get better,” you say. It’s not a lie. Not completely.

His mouth curves, faint, like he sees through you anyway.

“You’re already better,” he says. “Unnervingly so.”

You blink.

That was—was that…?

You forget how to breathe.

“I’m just… trying,” you say, staring at the floor now, the desk leg, anything but him.

He brushes past to grab something off the table, his shoulder skimming yours.

You wonder if that was deliberate.

He lingers there, folder in hand.

“You know you don’t have to prove anything to me, right?”

Your mouth is dry.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” he says, not cruel. Just certain. “Every session. Every answer. Every time I catch you looking.”

Your chest tightens. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.”

He looks at you then.

And something in you unravels.

You’ve seen him be charming. Controlled. The cool instructor with a smirk for every question. But this version—this quiet, unscripted him—feels like a secret you’re not supposed to see.

“This isn’t something we can let happen,” he says, voice like the scrape of stone.

“I know,” you say, too fast. “You think I don’t? You think I—”

“I think you’re still a student,” he says, gentle but firm. “And I’m the one who’s supposed to set the boundary.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” you snap, barely a whisper. “Do you think I want to feel like this?”

His grip on the folder tightens.

“God,” he breathes. “You sound like me.”

You go quiet.

So does he.

Far below, the sounds of sparring filter up—shouts, laughter, wooden blades clacking. This room feels far removed. A suspended moment. A place that shouldn’t exist.

You straighten, pulse hammering. “I should leave.”

“Yeah,” he says. But he doesn’t step aside. Doesn’t even look at the door.

You move to pass him—and then stop.

“Can I ask something?”

He turns slightly. “Go ahead.”

“If I hadn’t tried so hard… would it have changed anything? Would you have seen me the same?”

He stares at you. Doesn’t speak for a long beat.

“No,” he says finally. Quiet. Firm. “I would’ve noticed you anyway.”

The words hit harder than you expect.

He doesn’t offer anything else.

Just turns back to his folder.

And you walk away, unsure whether you’ve just lost something…

Or fallen even deeper into it.