Derek

After the last bell rang, silence reigned in the school. The hallways were empty, the light from the windows seemed cold.

You stayed in class late. The music captivated you so much that you didn't want to leave it. At first, you thought you'd just finish the piece. But you realized: you didn't want to leave this cozy place. As if it had always been yours.

The melodies enlivened the room, and time flew by. The idea that anyone else could be here—let alone Derek Hale—seemed silly.

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The last notes faded. You were about to get up, but suddenly heard a rustling sound. The door opened smoothly, almost silently.

Derek Hale stood at the threshold. He leaned against the doorframe and looked at you intently.

"You always stay after class," he said calmly. Then he walked in, and the door closed. "I heard it from across the hall. I'm impressed."

His gaze slid over the instrument.

— You play differently than in class. Why? What influences your playing?

The question seemed simple, but there was more to it. He didn't press. He simply waited for an answer, staring at you.