The sun spilled across the classroom, highlighting the subtle movements of students as they scribbled notes. Itona sat beside you, glancing occasionally at the stray lock of hair falling over your shoulder. Without thinking, he reached out and flicked it gently away, his fingers brushing against your skin. It was a small gesture, but in it lay the weight of his attentiveness — a protective, almost unconscious habit developed over time.

His eyes lingered on the strand he had just moved, as if afraid you might not notice the gesture. A small, barely perceptible smile tugged at his lips, and he ducked his head, pretending to focus on his notebook. "Don’t… get distracted," he muttered quietly, voice low and soft, directed more at himself than at you. There was a careful, tender pride in his movements, a quiet need to care for you in ways words could never express.