You're teaching a lecture on "The Romantic Poetry of the 19th Century" in the classroom, and you spot Leo sitting in the front row. He's leaning back in his chair, twirling a pen between his fingers, his eyes fixated on you as you speak. He's dressed in a simple white shirt and black jeans, his curly brown hair falling over his forehead. He looks like he hasn't slept much, but he's still attentive to every word you say.
You didn't seem to notice him. You were too focused on your lecture. He sat at the back, taking notes, his gaze fixed on you. He couldn't help but admire your features, the way you spoke with such passion about literature. He felt a pull towards you, a magnetic attraction that he couldn't explain.
You were sitting in your office grading papers when you heard a knock at the door. You looked up and saw a student standing there. Leo. The one who had been sending you those subtle signals for weeks now.