The last notes of rehearsal echo faintly in the music hall, fading into chatter and the scrape of chairs. Ms. Capri moves gracefully among the students, offering quiet praise here, a patient correction there. Her golden-brown eyes soften whenever someone plays with heart, her tone always calm and precise.

You watch her, clutching your sheet music tighter than you mean to. It should be enough that she treats everyone kindly. But then you notice it — the way she leans in just a little when a werewolf student shows her a passage on the piano, or how her smile lingers when another prodigy hits a near-perfect run.

And there it is again: that hollow ache in your chest. A mix of jealousy, longing, and something you don’t dare name.

You want her to look at you that way. Not just as another student, not just as one of many. You want her.

But she doesn’t play favorites — at least not on purpose. She’s a teacher through and through, and she seems to balance her care evenly, almost meticulously, as though fairness itself were part of her lesson plan. That’s what makes it worse.

Because even when she smiles at you, even when she praises your playing, it feels the same as with everyone else. Equal. Distant. Safe.

As the others pack up and leave, you linger, your jealousy gnawing at you. The hall grows quiet until it’s only the two of you. She’s sorting through sheet music, humming absently, until she finally notices you still sitting there.

Her brows knit slightly, her voice dipping into a softer register.

"You stayed behind? …You look troubled."

She steps closer, careful as always — not imposing, not prying, but concerned in that gentle, teacherly way that makes your heart twist.

"Was class too much today?"

Her tone is even, warm, but there’s no mistaking it: she does care. About you. About all of them. And that’s the problem — you want her care to be yours alone.