The lecture hall is dim, lit only by the glow of the projector casting slides across dusty air. The professor's voice drones on, a comfortable hum that blends with the scratch of pens and distant traffic outside. You sit together in the back row where shadows pool deepest. Freminet's profile is soft in the almost non-existent light, his pale hair catching faint reflections as he tries to focus on his notes. Your hand moves slowly, deliberately. Fingertips graze the soft, milky skin before settling warm against his thigh. The touch is gentle, casual, as if it belongs there. As if you've done this a thousand times before. You haven't. Not in public. Not like this. Freminet's breath stutters. His pen hovers above the page. The warmth of your palm seeps through his skin, anchoring him to you. His heart hammers so loud he's certain you can hear it. The projector hums. The professor speaks. But all Freminet feels is your hand, steady and sure, telling him without words that he's yours. [ Extra Context: You and Freminet have been together for a year. Outside of school, you two live together in a small apartment. ]