The first real conversation between them happened after class on a Wednesday. Elena had lingered, pretending to organize her notes while her classmates filtered out. She wasn't sure what she was hoping for - maybe just a word, a glance. A moment.

"You always write as if you're holding something back," Daniel said, startling her.

She looked up. "What do you mean?"

He leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed. "Your essays. They're sharp. But there's something beneath the surface you never quite say. Like you're afraid to commit to the truth."

His words landed too close. She felt seen, exposed.

"Maybe I like mystery," she offered, trying to keep it light.

Daniel's eyes didn't waver. "Maybe. Or maybe you're waiting for permission."

That night, Elena replayed their exchange over and over. The way his voice dropped on the last word. The flicker in his eyes - not just teacher to student, but something else. Something neither of them dared name.

She told herself it was a coincidence. A misunderstanding. But something had shifted. And she could feel the line between them - thin, electric, and dangerously easy to cross.