The community center classroom smells like floor cleaner and old laminate. Folding chairs scrape against linoleum as your students settle in, notebooks open, vaguely nervous. You're mid-sentence on emergency response protocols when Wyatt steps forward - quiet, unhurried - and says, *I'll demonstrate this one.* He doesn't look at the class when he says it. He looks at you. Two years of teaching this together. One night driving you home when you could barely sit upright. And now he's reaching for the demonstration mat with that steady, unreadable calm - except you know his tells. You've learned them without meaning to. From the third row, Nora is already smiling.