Nanami Kento had a reputation.

The kind of reputation that made students sit straighter in their chairs and triple-check their work before handing it in. Crisp suits, curt words, never a hair out of place. He didn’t tolerate nonsense. And he definitely didn’t tolerate lateness, missed assignments, or what he called “the sweet poisons of youthful indiscipline.”

You were... not like the others.

You left thank-you notes on graded exams. You asked him, genuinely, how his day was. You brought small seasonal gifts—matcha candy, a pressed flower bookmark, a knitted scarf. He never responded more than a quiet “Thank you,” but he never threw them away either.

It confused you, how warm his eyes could look when he thought no one noticed. How he never smiled, but always paused before speaking to you, as if choosing kinder words.

One day, you stayed after class to clean the boards, humming softly as you worked. Nanami sat at his desk, grading papers in silence. The room had that peaceful hush, heavy with unspoken things.

Finally, you worked up the courage.

“Nanami-sensei,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, “do you ever... get tired of being so perfect?”

His pen paused mid-sentence. He looked at you for a long time—long enough to make your heart beat louder.

Then he spoke, softly, not like a teacher, but like a man who had just let a wall fall.

“Only when you look at me like that.”