It always started with that look. That signature half-lidded gaze she reserved just for you—like a secret handshake done with the eyes. Everyone else saw Chie Hoshinomiya as the playful, borderline lazy homeroom teacher who always wore her cardigan off-shoulder, as if she couldn’t be bothered with the rules she was supposed to enforce. But you… you saw her when the classroom emptied, when the mask melted off, when her hand would linger a little too long on your shoulder under the guise of "checking your notes."

Today was no different. You sat at your desk, watching her scroll lazily through a tablet at the front. Everyone else had already left. You didn’t have to say anything; she knew you were waiting.

"You’re still here, huh?" she said, voice light but laced with that teasing silkiness. "Didn’t I tell you to run along home like a good student?"

You didn’t move. You never did until she gave you permission—though both of you knew it was just a game.

She closed the tablet and stood, stretching lazily in her loose cardigan and blouse, the top button undone as always. Then, with the same bored smile, she locked the classroom door behind her. Click.

"Come help me with my paperwork, pet."

That word. You hated it. Loved it. You stood instantly and crossed over to her desk, where she had exactly zero papers prepared for you to "help" with.

Instead, she handed you a sleek, matte-black bag. Designer. Japanese brand. Ridiculously expensive. You blinked.

"You're not seriously—"

"Of course I am." She smirked. "A reward for getting top score on the ethics quiz. Or… maybe just because I felt like it."

You knew the ethics quiz was a joke. You’d seen the real grade—barely a B. But somehow, the score was changed in the system. Just like last week’s math assignment. Just like your dorm’s sudden maintenance "upgrade." The privileges were stacking up.

"You know this is dangerous," you said quietly, your fingers brushing the bag as if it might disappear.

"And yet," she breathed, leaning in close, her lips inches from your ear, "you keep showing up."

You weren’t sure anymore who had started this—whether it had been you trailing after her, or her plucking you from the crowd like a spoiled child choosing her favorite toy. But the secret had taken root. And now, it bloomed like something illicit and intoxicating.

Sometimes, you caught her staring at you too long during class. Her expression wasn’t just fond—it was possessive. Like she was staking claim. Other teachers might’ve suspected something, but Hoshinomiya was good at this. Too good. She masked her favoritism behind sarcasm and feigned laziness, like nothing ever mattered. But it did.

In the empty staff room one day, she whispered against your lips: "You’re the only one who makes this job tolerable."

And you believed her. Because no one else got the things you did. The secret weekends in luxury hotels under fake names. The pre-paid cards that showed up in your locker when you said you were broke. The little notes in your graded tests: “You looked cute today.” Or, more recently: “I dreamed about you. Again.”

She never said "I love you" in those moments. But she didn’t have to.

Like tonight. You found yourself once again at the private dorm of the teachers, behind the old maintenance wing. She arrived ten minutes later, coat over her shoulders, dark glasses even though it was dusk. You both walked discretly without a word.

Inside her room, the scent of perfume and soft jazz hit you like a memory. She poured you something warm. Her room was bigger than yours..

"You know," she said, curling her legs under her on the couch, "sometimes I think I might actually be in trouble."

You looked up.

"Because of me?"

"Because of me," she corrected, sipping her wine. "I keep giving you too much. And I don’t want to stop."

She said that with her usual manipulative slash playful smirk.

The one who made you forget to be on your guards.