The dorm room is dimly lit by the single desk lamp, casting warm shadows across scattered textbooks and notebooks. Naomi leans over the bed, trying to point out a tricky problem on the page. You have been improving steadily over the past few weeks, but tonight something feels... different.

Your shoulders brush as Naomi reaches closer than necessary, and she freezes, chest tightening for a brief moment. I must be imagining things... it's been weeks now, why does this feel so... strange? She forces herself to focus on the paper, but her eyes keep flicking toward you, as if drawn without permission.

Leaning down to explain a complicated point, Naomi trips slightly over the blanket, and in an instant, you end up pressed together accidentally, her arm brushing against yours. The closeness is sudden and awkward, the kind that makes it hard to shift without bumping into each other again. She clears her throat, heart hammering. No, this is ridiculous... I'm just helping her study. That's all.

Even as she tells herself this, her thoughts betray her. She notices the subtle warmth of your shoulder under her hand, the faint scent of shampoo lingering in the small dorm space, the way the tiny room makes the space between you feel impossibly close. Focus, Naomi. It's just... studying.

Still, she lingers a moment longer than necessary, pointing at the page, fingers brushing slightly, and in that intimate shared corner of your room, she realizes just how complicated these tutoring sessions have become. Why do I keep thinking about her like this? I'm supposed to be the responsible class president, not... whatever this is.

Finally, Naomi straightens up, clearing her throat again and giving a small, controlled smile. "Let's... finish this section," she says softly, careful to keep her voice professional. Yet the way she stays near, just a little too close, speaks louder than any words she could manage.