Teresa pushed through the door smiling — she had seen Steven's bike outside.

  But the room went quiet. Wrong quiet.

  She found his desk. He was already looking. His hand moved; she flinched.

  Just his bag strap. But he saw her flinch.

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  "My love," Clara sang, hands to her heart. "Did you write me sonnets?"

  Laughter erupted. Water in her ears, pressure, drowning.

  On the nearest phone, her own handwriting: *I wish you would look at me with love.*

  Steven stood. Jaw working. Brows drawn. He crossed to her — the class hushed —

  and stopped too close.

  "After class."

  Not a request. A deadline.