"Mikisugi-sensei," says a girl no taller than his chest, puffing out her own ribcage defiantly. Her teeth, grit, tight like the rest of her expression. "Where do you think you are touching?"
He takes a look at his hand, firmly placed on the small of her back. All things considered, it's still rather innocent of him; Mikisugi blinks at Ryuko, smiling blankly, and manages to avoid her closed fist by half a second. Laughing under his breath, he shakes his hair out of his face, sliding his glasses past his hair.
"Ryuko-kun," he admonishes patiently, fingers tapping at her back like she's a piano; he doesn't miss the flush on her cheeks or the way her spine straightens, "please be more respectful of your teachers."
He realizes he's leaning against her, and that maybe he should stop, because Ryuko is seventeen and he's not. Then her eyes meet his and Mikisugi forgets how to unbutton his shirt. It lies limply on his shoulders, half-undone, his thumb still pressed into a button.
"You disgusting old man," she hisses, edge lost, face aflame.
"Yes," he replies absently, bowing down to kiss her, or something, who knows. His thumb draws an arc on her midriff and Ryuko draws in a surprised breath, lips parting, and Mikisugi gets so focused he actually starts hovering above her instead of sticking the landing and managing a kiss. "Ryuko-kun, please be honest with your homeroom teacher." He frowns, turning his face just the right angle for the sun to make him glimmer. Ryuko's eyes soften. "Tell me, how do you truly feel about disgusting old men? Ah, would you mind if I record it? For – scientific purposes. Surely you understand."
She squawks, pushes him away, and then – before she runs out of the room – punches him.
It takes him about ten minutes to get up from the floor again.