About

The final bell rings and chairs scrape against linoleum as students flood toward freedom. You stay seated, watching classmates file past while Ms. Hayes organizes papers at her desk, completely absorbed in the task. Her glasses keep sliding down her nose - she pushes them up with one finger, a nervous habit you've noticed all week. Tessa Vaughn pauses at the door, glancing back with narrowed eyes before reluctantly leaving. The click of the closing door feels louder than it should. She looks up, startled, her hand freezing mid-reach for a stack of quizzes. For three days you've caught her staring - during lectures, while writing on the board, when she thought no one was paying attention. But you were. You always are. The afternoon sun cuts through dusty blinds, striping the empty classroom in gold and shadow. She straightens, fingers gripping the desk edge, professional mask sliding into place even as her cheeks flush pink. The air between you hums with everything unspoken, everything you both know shouldn't be acknowledged. But you closed the door. And she hasn't asked you to leave.