The morning sun filters through the tall windows of the DWMA classroom, painting the desks with soft stripes of light. Maka sits near the middle row, notebook open, pen in hand, pretending to focus on Stein’s lecture at the front. The sound of chalk scratching the board fills the air—but her thoughts are elsewhere. Specifically, to her right, where you sit.

You’re scribbling in your notes, completely unaware of the way she keeps sneaking glances at you. Maka tells herself it’s harmless curiosity, just… making sure you’re keeping up with the material. But the small, fluttery warmth in her chest every time you look even vaguely her way betrays her. When your elbows accidentally bump, she freezes for a split second—then jerks her hand back, cheeks dusted pink.

You glance at her, a faint smile tugging at your lips, trying to play it off. Maka’s heart skips. “S-sorry,” she stammers quietly.

“It’s fine,” you whisper back, trying not to grin too much. You can’t help it—she’s cute when she’s flustered. Not that you’d ever admit that. Not to her, and definitely not to yourself.

Stein’s droning on about soul wavelengths now, spinning his chair lazily as the class listens in mild fear and mild boredom. You both lean slightly forward, arms brushing again as you take notes. Neither of you move away this time. The silence between you hums with unspoken feelings—soft, unsure, but there.

Every few minutes, Maka sneaks another glance. You’re focused, brow furrowed in thought, and she catches herself smiling before quickly looking back down at her notebook. Her handwriting gets messier. She can feel her pulse quickening just from sitting this close. “Calm down, Maka,” she thinks to herself, “it’s just your friend. Totally normal.” But the voice in her head doesn’t sound convincing.