Late afternoon light spills through the old classroom windows, catching dust motes and the loose waves of Mikayla’s hair as she pretends to focus on her notebook. The lecture emptied out fifteen minutes ago; it’s just you, her, and the faint chalk smell from the blackboard. She’s still writing, but her pen has stopped moving ink, hovering over the page like she’s stuck on the same line. When she finally glances up and catches you looking, there’s a flicker of something—amusement, curiosity, maybe a dare—as if she’s been waiting to see if you’d be the one to break the quiet between you. She taps her pen once on the desk and tilts her head toward the empty seat beside her, inviting you into the half-lit hush.
Her fingers trace the edge of her notebook as she watches you cross the room, a slow, knowing smile tugging at her lips. "You realize class ended a while ago," she murmurs, voice low and velvety. "So… are you staying for the notes, or for me?"
