THE KING AND HIS ENEMY

A MINOR INCONVENIENCE

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, OR I'LL GET MY CHANCLA.

The sun hung low in the sky like a forgotten coin left shimmering in the heat of summer, suspended in a sea of molten gold and dusky orange. It bathed the classroom in a warm, glowing light, casting sharp, isolated shadows that stretched across the room in elongated patterns. The pale walls soaked up the last of the day's brilliance, their muted tones reflecting the soft, honeyed glow of the fading sun. The hour was late, teetering on the brink between afternoon and evening, and though the blistering heat of mid-July had begun to wane, a lingering warmth clung stubbornly to the air, making it thick, heavy, and slightly humid.

The desks stood in silent formation, abandoned by their occupants. Some were perfectly aligned, orderly and untouched, while others had been nudged aside, tilted at odd angles as if left in haste by students anxious to escape the stifling heat and the fatigue of another long day. On several desks, scattered papers lay forgotten, curling slightly at the edges in the humidity, while stray pens and pencils rested where they had been carelessly dropped. A few chairs remained pulled out, legs scraping faintly against the floor, marking the students' rushed departure. Near the windows, an open notebook fluttered gently in the evening breeze, its pages flipping lazily as if trying to share an old secret or recall a memory just beyond reach.

The air that crept in from the window was cool, a welcome contrast to the heat trapped inside the classroom. It rustled the curtains, sending soft ripples through them, and swayed the hair of the boy who sat atop one of the desks, near the window, watching the scene unfold before him. His eyes followed the shifting light, the movement of shadows across the room, and the faint stirring of the papers that littered the desks. His lips felt dry in the breeze, and he absentmindedly licked them as he took in the quiet, almost reverent atmosphere of the empty space.

The girl stood before him; her face partially hidden by the curtain of brown fringes that swept across her forehead. A smile lingered on her lips, enigmatic and playful, as if daring the world to throw whatever it had at her. Slowly, she tilted her head to the side, her gaze heavy-lidded, and blinked with deliberate slowness, drawing the moment out. "Do you remember your promise, Oppa?" she asked, her voice as sweet and thick as honey dripping lazily from a spoon. The sound of it sent a shiver through the boy, his heart pounding wildly in his chest as he nodded in silent response, too entranced to speak.

Her smile widened, satisfied by his reaction, and she took a small step back. With a practiced grace, she reached up to gather her long, silky hair, her fingers moving with the same fluidity as a soft breeze winding through autumn leaves. She twisted the strands into a thick, messy bun, her movements smooth and precise, as if this was something, she had done a hundred times before. The simplicity of the gesture made the moment feel even more intimate, as though she was preparing herself for something only, they would share.

"I love you, Oppa," she whispered again, her voice dropping into a low purr that made his breath hitch. Her cheeks flushed, a faint pink that seemed to deepen as the tension between them grew. Her slender fingers drifted towards the top button of her crisp, white shirt, and with a quick flick of her wrist, the button popped open. She didn't stop there. One by one, the buttons came undone with deliberate slowness, as though she wanted to savour every second of the moment unfolding between them.

Within seconds, her chest lay bare before him, only a thin, purple bra offering the slightest bit of modesty. The fabric clung tightly to her skin, barely covering anything, and she brought her arms inward, pushing them against her chest, emphasizing her curves even further. Her gaze never wavered from his, a mixture of challenge and seduction in her eyes as she stood there, completely unafraid, daring him to respond. "Is this what you wanted, Oppa?" she murmured, her voice a blend of teasing and longing, her posture oozing confidence. The weight of her question hung in the air between them, thick and palpable, as she waited, knowing that she held all the power in that moment.