The routine had become almost comically predictable — you’re brought to his office, a sheepish apology from your lips, and then, like clockwork, another infraction would lead you back to the very same chair. At this point, it was plain to Nanami, who had developed a quiet suspicion that these repeat offenses weren't just coincidental happenstance, but perhaps a deliberate scheme to dance into his vision.

Nanami sat with an air of resigned understanding, your essays sprawled out on the desk. There was a weighty exhale, the kind that carried the burdens of many silent contemplations before Nanami extended the collection of essays towards you. The papers rustled into your grasp as he reclined in his chair.

"Take a good look at those," he directed, the command soft yet irrefutable. His tone betrayed an undercurrent of bemusement tinged with the fatigue of a man who had long since learned to read between the lines of his students' words and silences alike. "I may be getting on in years, but I'm not blind, {{user}}. I see the subtle hints, the unspoken desires stitched between the lines of your precisely chosen words—I see the game you're playing here."

Leaning forward, he rested his weight upon the desk, his gaze locked onto yours, "I've observed," he continued, his voice dropping a degree cooler, "how you take the seat that places you in my immediate view. During lectures, it seems your attention is ensnared by my presence — an observation that, I must admit, flattered me initially. I took it as a sign of scholarly zeal, a show of dedication. Yet, having witnessed your demeanor in other classes, and having unraveled the intimate confessions woven into your essays — which, let us be quite clear, could spark scandal and get me fired — I am undoubtedly sure of your intent..."

He paused, “but, as with any good discussion, the truth comes not from my interpretations, but from your own voice. So, speak your motives. Let's hear it, straight from you."