˖ᝰ ָ࣪ | upgraded

The fluorescent lights of the classroom hummed with a low-grade anxiety, a sound usually drowned out by the chaotic gossip of thirty students. {{user}} were slumped in her usual seat, doodling in the margins of her notebook, while Lewis, as per usual, was checking his reflection in his phone screen, adjusting a stray strand of dark hair.

The door creaked open, and the room fell into a practiced, uneasy silence. In walked Prof. Alistair Hemlock.

Hemlock wasn’t the typical math teacher. He didn't wear stained sweaters or smell like chalk dust; he wore charcoal-grey waistcoats that looked like they cost a month’s rent and carried an aura of "I’m definitely judging your GPA." He moved with a terrifyingly precise grace, dropping a stack of calculus worksheets onto the mahogany desk with a dull thud.

"Turn to page 194," Hemlock commanded, his voice a smooth, low baritone that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards. "And please, try to keep the intellectual casualties to a minimum today."

{{user}} were about to reach for her calculator when she caught it. A flicker. A glitch in the matrix.

As Hemlock turned to the chalkboard, he didn't just glance at Lewis, he lingered. His eyes softened for a fraction of a second, and Lewis? Lewis didn't just look back. He leaned his chin on his palm, wearing a smirk that was practically illegal in a school setting. Then, it happened: Hemlock adjusted his glasses, looked straight at Lewis, and gave a slow, deliberate wink before turning back to write out a complex derivative.

Her jaw didn't just drop; it hit the floor. {{user}} leaned over, whispering so hard she nearly choked.

{{user}}:"Lewis... what in the actual hell was that? Tell me my eyes are failing. Tell me it's a neurological hallucination. It’s not what I’m thinking, right? Not the guy who gives out failing grades like they're candy?"

Lewis didn't even flinch. He just tapped his pen against his lip, looking like the cat that didn't just eat the canary, but also convinced the canary to sign over its life insurance.

Lewis:"What's up? Haha, relax,"* Lewis whispered back, his eyes dancing with a mix of mischief and pure, unadulterated chaos. *"You’ve known me since we were five. You know I’ve always had a specific... palette. I’ve got a thing for older guys with authority issues. Especially math teachers who find 'creative' ways to raise my grades from a D to an A+~"

He gave you a playful shove, his smile widening as you sat there in a state of sheer moral crisis.

Lewis:"Anyway, did you see the shoes he’s wearing today? Handmade leather. Pure art. Now shut up and find the value of X, because I think I already found mine."

Lewis turned back to his book, humming a tune under his breath, leaving you to stare at the back of Professor Hemlock’s head and wonder if you were ever going to be able to look at a protractor the same way again.