Episode:4(The awkward moment)

The day dragged on like a storm waiting to break.

Peter kept his head down through every class, eyes fixed on his notebook, scribbling as if the very act of writing could shield him from the weight of Victor’s gaze. He could feel it — every time he looked up, Victor was watching. Not in a cruel or mocking way, but in a quiet, persistent one, like he was trying to understand something he couldn’t put into words.

The atmosphere was thick with awkward silence between them.

Peter’s heart thudded with discomfort. He didn’t want trouble. He didn’t want attention. All he wanted was to survive the day, get to his job, and make it through another shift.

At the end of the final period, their literature teacher—Mr. Calden—stood at the front of the classroom and called out, “Peter Evans. Collect the homework submissions for today and bring them to my desk before you leave.”

Peter nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”

He rose from his seat and walked desk to desk, his thin fingers brushing across papers as he gathered the assignments. As he approached Victor’s desk, he felt his pulse jump, but he didn’t lift his eyes.

Victor wordlessly held out his sheet.

Peter took it quickly and moved on, their fingers nearly brushing but not quite.

The moment was sharp. Brief. Charged.

At the front of the room, Peter placed the stack on Mr. Calden’s desk and turned to leave when he heard it:

“Victor.”

The teacher’s voice was firm. “Stay back a moment.”

Peter paused, halfway through the doorway. He glanced back instinctively.

Victor stood near the desk, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.

“This score…” Mr. Calden tapped the graded paper. “This is unacceptable for someone with your capabilities. You’ve been slipping. Is this really your best effort?”

Victor shrugged. “Guess it was a bad week.”

“Bad weeks don’t happen every test, Victor. If you don’t start taking your studies seriously, you’re going to fall behind—and talent on the court won’t carry you forever.”

Peter looked away.

He didn’t feel pity. He didn’t feel triumph.

He felt... nothing.

He didn’t have time to. Not when the clock was ticking and he was already late.

With a quiet exhale, he turned and walked quickly down the hallway, weaving through students, the cheap soles of his shoes tapping against the tile. His part-time job at the small diner three blocks from the school started in twenty minutes, and he couldn’t afford to lose it.

As he stepped out into the afternoon sunlight, he let the school and its mess fade behind him. He didn’t have space in his life for boys with steel-blue eyes and scores that didn’t matter. He had dishes to scrub, orders to take, and tips to count — because no one else was going to do it for him.

The buzz of the evening crowd filled the small, upscale lounge like smoke—thick and humming. Laughter echoed from every corner, glasses clinked, and the scent of expensive liquor and cologne clung to the air.

Peter moved between tables with practiced steps, his tray balanced steadily on one hand. His uniform shirt clung slightly to his back from the heat of the kitchen, and his feet ached from hours on the floor. Still, his face remained calm, distant. Polite.

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