Chapter Text
It was one night.
That’s still the version that makes the most sense.
That’s the version MinuteTech repeats to himself as he locks the classroom door behind the last student, as he walks down the hallway, as he nods politely when someone greets him and keeps moving like nothing about today was unusual.
One night.
Contained. Finished. Something that was never meant to follow him into anything real.
It had been easy to believe that before.
Before it had a face again.
Before it was sitting in the second row of his classroom, trying very hard not to look at him—and failing, in the same way MinuteTech had been trying not to look back.
He had recognized him immediately.
There hadn’t even been a moment of doubt. It would have been easier if there had been—if he could have convinced himself he was mistaken, that it was just a similar voice, a familiar posture, a coincidence he was overthinking.
But no.
It was him.
And that wasn’t even the worst part.
The worst part was how quickly everything else followed—the memory, the context, the realization of where they were now and what that meant. It all aligned too fast, leaving him no time to process before he had to keep going like nothing had changed.
He had handled it.
That’s what matters.
No disruption. No visible reaction beyond a fraction of a second. His voice steady, his pacing unchanged, the lecture continuing exactly as it was meant to.
Professional.
Even when their eyes met.
Even when recognition hit on both sides at the same time.
Even when—
He exhales quietly and forces the thought away as he steps outside, the evening air cooler against his skin.
The campus is quieter now.
It should make things easier.
It doesn’t.
By the time he gets home, the repetition of one night has already started to lose its effect.
The door closes behind him with a soft click.
Silence follows.
He stands there for a second longer than necessary, hand still resting on the handle, like he’s forgotten what he was supposed to do next.
Then he moves.
Routine first.
That’s easier.
He sets his bag down on the table, unbuttons the top of his shirt with slow, absent movements, like his hands are working on their own while his thoughts lag behind. The fabric feels too stiff, too structured after the day, and he shrugs it off, draping it over the back of a chair without really looking.
And then—
It hits.
Not the recognition.
That already happened.
Not the memory.
That’s been there all day.
It’s the rest of it.
The part he didn’t let himself think about earlier.
…His student.
MinuteTech goes still halfway through pulling on a sweater, one arm in, the other not quite there yet.
The thought lands heavier the second time.
More real.
His student.
He exhales, finishing the motion, tugging the sweater down over his shoulders like that might settle something, like it might ground him back into something normal.
“…Right,” he mutters, quieter now.
It doesn’t help.
If anything, it makes everything sharper.
Because now it isn’t just something that happened.
It’s something that didn’t stay where it was supposed to.
It followed him here.
Into his space.
Into tomorrow.
He drags a hand over his face, then pushes himself toward the kitchen, more out of habit than intention. If he keeps moving, maybe the thoughts will organize themselves into something more manageable.
He opens a cabinet. Stares at it for a second.
Closes it.
Opens the fridge instead.
Same result.
“…Focus,” he mutters to himself, like that’s enough to fix it.
He pulls something out anyway—something simple, something he doesn’t have to think about too much—and sets it on the counter. The motions are automatic: pan, stove, the quiet click of the burner turning on. Familiar. Repetitive.
Grounding.
At least a little.
He leans back against the counter while he waits, arms crossing loosely, gaze unfocused as he forces himself to actually think it through.
It happened before the semester.
That matters.
There had been no prior connection, no existing dynamic, nothing that would have made it inappropriate at the time. It had been random, unplanned—something that was supposed to end the moment the night did.
Which means, technically, nothing about it started wrong.
That should make this easier.
It doesn’t.
Because the problem isn’t what it was.
The problem is what it is now.
And what it is now is… complicated.
The quiet sizzle from the pan pulls his attention back just enough that he doesn’t drift too far, and he moves to stir whatever he put in it, movements slightly slower than usual.
“…Okay,” he says under his breath, like he’s talking himself through it. “Think.”
Because he has to.
Ignoring it didn’t work earlier.
It’s not going to work now.
So he starts organizing it the only way he knows how—turning it into something structured, something that can be handled step by step.
Keep distance.
Keep everything academic.
Don’t give it more attention than necessary.
Treat him like any other student.
He flips the food in the pan, watching it for a second longer than needed.
That should be enough.
It should be simple.
But even as the thought settles, something about it doesn’t sit right.
Because he already knows it’s not going to feel that simple in practice.
He already noticed too much.
The way Wemmbu avoided looking at him.
The way he tensed, just slightly, every time he spoke.
The hesitation.
The awareness.
MinuteTech exhales, quieter now, gaze dropping to the counter.
“…He’s distracted.”
It’s an obvious conclusion.
But it doesn’t feel distant the way it normally would.
If anything, it feels uncomfortably personal.
Because that distraction isn’t coming from nowhere.
And if it keeps going—
If it starts affecting him—
MinuteTech’s grip tightens slightly on the spatula before he forces himself to relax it.
That’s where it stops being something he can ignore.
Not just for himself.
For him.
He exhales slowly, turning the stove off a second too early before realizing it, then turning it back on with a small, almost annoyed huff at himself.
Focus.
If this turns into a problem, it won’t just reflect on him.
It could affect Wemmbu directly.
And that—
That matters more than it should.
More than he wants it to.
He straightens slightly, more grounded now.
Okay.
Then that’s what he focuses on.
Not the past.
Not what happened.
Just the present.
If there’s an issue, he handles it like he would with any student who’s struggling to focus. Measured. Appropriate. Nothing excessive.
A reminder, maybe.
A check-in, if it continues.
A private conversation, if necessary.
The thought lingers.
A conversation.
He hesitates, setting the spatula down for a second, staring at it like he’s thinking too hard about something that should be simple.
It shouldn’t feel complicated.
It should just be part of the job.
“…It’s just to fix the situation,” he says quietly.
That sounds better.
More reasonable.
He finishes cooking almost on autopilot after that, plating the food without really registering it, movements smooth but slightly distant.
Tomorrow, he keeps things normal.
He doesn’t single him out.
He doesn’t avoid him in a way that would be obvious.
He treats him the same as everyone else—
unless it becomes necessary not to.
And if it does—
then he addresses it.
Directly.
Privately.
Once.
Just enough to keep things from getting worse.
Just enough to make sure it doesn’t affect him more than it already has.
That’s all it is.
That’s all it needs to be.
But even as the plan settles into something that almost feels stable, there’s still something underneath it. Quiet. Persistent.
Because no matter how carefully he frames it, no matter how firmly he tells himself this is just about maintaining control—
he already knows he noticed.
Immediately.
Consistently.
Without trying.
And that’s not something he can just… turn off.
MinuteTech stands there for a moment, plate in hand, not actually eating, just staring at nothing in particular.
Then he exhales.
“…Fine.”
Soft.
Resigned.
He sets the plate down, dragging a hand briefly through his hair before straightening again, expression settling back into something more composed.
This is manageable.
It will stay manageable.
It has to.
Because if it doesn’t—
if he lets this turn into something else—
it won’t just affect him.
It will affect Wemmbu too.
And that’s reason enough to keep it under control.
So he moves, like the plan is enough, like everything is already back where it’s supposed to be.
Even if, somewhere in the back of his mind, he already knows—
tomorrow, when he steps into that classroom—
he’s going to notice him again.
And if that distraction is still there—
he’s going to have to say something.
Not because he wants to.
But because leaving it alone might be worse.
And that’s the part he can’t ignore anymore.