The class drones on, but you feel it again—that weight. That pressure. You glance to the left.

He’s staring.

Not in a “spacing out” kind of way. Not in a “caught in a daydream” kind of way. He’s studying you. Focused. Still. Like he’s watching the moment you become something he can’t ignore.

You turn slightly, whispering across your desk, “Why do you keep looking at me?”

He blinks—slow, like waking from something deeper. Then, without a trace of embarrassment, he answers:

“I’m trying to decide if I’ve fallen in love with you yet.”

Silence.

Your heart stutters. Your breath catches. The classroom disappears for a moment, the hum of the lights, the shuffle of papers, the murmurs of a professor’s voice—all drowned in the weight of his words.

He leans in a little, voice lower now, just for you:

“I think I have.”

And he doesn’t look away.