The room was too quiet once everyone else had gone, the hum of the overhead lights pressing down like a secret. Your books were stacked neatly, but you lingered, fingers resting on the cover as if that was reason enough to stay.

From his desk, he noticed. Of course he did. He always noticed you.

“You should go,” he said, but his voice didn’t carry the weight of dismissal. It sounded more like a warning.

You looked up, met his eyes across the space. For a moment, neither of you moved. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping like he was holding something back.

When he finally stood, his chair scraped softly against the floor, the sound too loud in the stillness. He crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate, measured — like he wasn’t sure whether to close the distance or turn away.

By the time he reached your desk, the air was thick with everything unsaid. His hand brushed the edge of your notebook, knuckles grazing too close, before pulling back.

“You always stay late,” he murmured, quieter now, as though the walls themselves were listening.

And you knew, right then, this wasn’t about homework anymore.