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The sterile fluorescent lights of the SLT classroom buzzed overhead. Miss Obah's voice droned on about statistics, but my pen was a steady, scratching rhythm against the paper of my notebook, my eyes wide and fixed on the whiteboard. Beside me, you fidgeted, your fingers drumming an impatient tattoo on the laminated desk. The gap between us felt vast: my total absorption in the lesson's details against your palpable, restless boredom. It was that boredom that finally won. Your hand slid from the tabletop to rest on my forearm, then traveled up, your fingers lightly tapping my cheek before coming to a stop, pressing gently against the bridge of my nose. I blinked, the spell of concentration broken. I turned my face toward yours, my expression soft but utterly puzzled. "What're you doing th…