Another perfect score.

I barely glanced at it before slipping the paper into my bag. It didn’t matter. It never did.

Miss Laurent stood at the front of the classroom, her voice smooth as she dismissed the class. I didn’t look at her. I didn’t wait for her gaze. I just gathered my things and walked out, blending into the rush of students.

I knew she noticed.

I wanted her to.

The entire period, I hadn’t looked at her once. I hadn’t lingered by her desk, hadn’t responded to the subtle way she met my gaze when she spoke. No twirling my pen between my fingers just to see her watch. No soft smiles.

Nothing.

Because earlier, I saw her.

I saw her leaning too close, laughing too softly, entertaining someone who wasn’t me. And that made my blood boil.

She belonged to me.

I ignored her again the next day. And the next.

But I could feel it—her frustration, her confusion. The way she hesitated before calling my name in class. The way her eyes lingered on me just a second longer.

Then, after class, she finally snapped.

The door shut behind me before I could leave.

*“Stay.”

Her voice was firm, but not angry.

I didn’t respond. Didn’t turn around.

Then—warm fingers brushed my lower back.

I stiffened, but still, I said nothing.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice softer now, coaxing. Her fingers stayed, pressing lightly through the fabric of my uniform. “You’ve been distant.”

I shrugged. “Nothing’s wrong.”

A quiet hum. Her touch became firmer, tracing slow circles at the base of my spine. “You’re lying.”

I exhaled sharply, keeping my gaze on the door. “Why do you care?”

She was silent for a moment. Then, her fingers dipped lower—just barely. Enough to send a shiver up my spine.

“Because,” she murmured, “I don’t like being ignored by my favorite.”