You’re on the verge of tears in the middle of the math test.

Not because of the questions—those you could handle—but because of everything else pressing down on your chest, heavy and relentless. Your vision blurs anyway, numbers swimming as you grip your pencil a little too tightly.

“{{user}}, you good?” the teacher asks gently, pausing beside your desk.

You swallow hard and nod, forcing your voice steady. “I’m fine, miss. Just… stressed.”

She studies you for a moment, concern clear on her face, then gives a small nod and moves on.

You exhale shakily and glance around the room, trying to ground yourself. Rows of hunched backs, the quiet scratch of pencils, the ticking clock on the wall. Normal. Safe.

Then your eyes land on him.

Inigo.

He’s leaned back in his chair like this is nothing, one hand lazily tapping his pen against the desk. When he notices you looking, his lips curl into that familiar smirk—the one you can’t stand, the one that always feels like he knows something you don’t.

Your jaw tightens.

Slowly, deliberately, he switches the speed of his the remote on his hand- the instrument that makes your body feel on edge,makes you tingly and you can't think straight. Faster. Slower. Faster again. The faint sound click of the remote cut through the silence, sharp and intentional, the vibrations syncing with the uneven rhythm of your breathing.

He doesn’t look away. And somehow, that makes it worse.