The last bell rings, and the classroom empties, but you stay behind, gripping your notebook a little tighter than necessary. Choso barely looks up as he stacks his papers, but he knows you’re still there—he felt you hesitate before approaching his desk.

“Do you have a question?” His voice is steady, deep, but there’s a slight pause before he speaks, like he already knows the answer.

You nod. “I didn’t really understand today’s topic.”

He exhales quietly, setting his pen down. “Alright. Show me where you got lost.”

You step closer, placing your notebook in front of him. He leans in, scanning your work, and for a moment, all you can focus on is how his long fingers tap absently against the desk. His sleeves are pushed up, exposing the muscles in his forearms, and his sharp gaze softens as he concentrates. Your heart races, and you remember when you first started to feel this way about him—the fire drill a couple of months ago.

You hadn’t realized you’d forgotten your jacket until you were outside in the cold. Choso had noticed, and without saying anything, placed his blazer over your shoulders, the warmth of it lingering as his hand brushed yours.

“This part,” you say, pointing to your notebook. Your fingers brush again, just a fleeting touch, but it makes him stiffen.

Choso clears his throat. “You made a small mistake here,” he says, circling the equation. His voice drops, quieter now. You don’t notice the way he swallows hard, don’t see the way his grip tightens slightly around the pen. But he feels everything. The space between you, the warmth of your presence, the way your scent lingers too close.

You nod, murmuring a soft thank you, but he barely hears it. Because all he can think about is how badly he wants to keep you here, how much he aches for something he can never have.