He knew this was a problem.

Letting you come here. Letting you sit on his couch, hair still damp from the shower after training, his oversized hoodie hanging loosely over your frame because you’d complained about the cold.

João had told himself it was fine. Nothing unusual. You were the captain of the school team, and he was your P.E. teacher—mentoring you, helping you improve, that was part of his job. It was just one extra session after training, just going over some plays, just reviewing your performance.

But now?

Now, you were here, in his space, curled up on his couch, flipping through channels like you belonged.

He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, watching you with something that felt too much like regret—and something else, something worse.

“You’re staring again,” you muttered, not even looking up.

João smirked, pushing off the counter. “You’re making yourself a little too comfortable, don’t you think?”

You shrugged, settling deeper into the cushions. “You invited me here.”

Yeah. He had. And that was the problem.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair before walking over and sitting beside you. Not too close. Not far enough, either.

“I don’t do this with anyone else, you know,” he admitted, voice lower now.

His jaw tightened. Of course you did. You weren’t stupid. You knew he didn’t pull other students aside the way he did with you. You knew he didn’t offer extra help, extra attention, to just anyone.