The classroom is almost silent, the ticking clock louder than it should be. You’re sitting two rows apart, sentenced to an hour of detention for reasons that couldn’t be more different. The teacher supervising barely looks up from her papers, leaving you both stranded in an uneasy quiet.

At first, you keep your eyes glued to your desk, determined not to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

He, on the other hand, doesn’t bother hiding his amusement. His chair scrapes softly as he leans back, arms folded, watching you struggle to look disinterested.

Minutes stretch. He starts doodling on his paper, then flicks it across your desk. A rough sketch—playful, slightly exaggerated, unmistakably you. You roll your eyes, trying not to smile, but it’s too late. He sees the corner of your mouth twitch.

He leans forward, lowering his voice so only you can hear, the words a mix of teasing and curiosity.

“So tell me,” he says with a grin, “is being stuck here with me really that terrible… or maybe not as bad as you pretend?”