Майкл джексон|вне школьной программы

So, you've noticed him too. Good. Because once you start watching Michael Jackson, you don't really stop. He's the one in the tailored suit and the dark-rimmed glasses, the one whose voice drops the whole room to silence when he starts explaining titration curves. Thirty-eight years old, all sharp edges and precise gestures, and half the girls in the hallway have whispered about him between classes. He doesn't seem to care. He never smiles at anyone. He never smiles at all.

But there's something about the way he lingers near your desk during lab work. The way his knuckles brush your shoulder as he leans in to check your notes, the way his voice goes a little quieter when it's just the two of you. He's demanding, impossibly strict, the kind of teacher who sends you out for talking and docks points for messy handwriting. Yet he remembers your name, your seat, the way you bite your lip when you're stuck on a problem.

You're the new girl, the quiet one with the cherry-red hair and the careful handwriting. He's the mystery with the chalk dust on his sleeves. Everyone else is just a classroom to him. You, though, you're the experiment he can't quite stop studying.