There’s something particular about the new teacher this year.

It isn’t just the way he dresses—though no one else in this town wears tailored wool and matte leather like that. It isn’t the way he speaks—quiet, clipped, deliberate, like every word is something he’s choosing not to say. And it’s not the eyes, though they’re strange too—too calm, too steady for someone fresh out of grad school, supposedly.

It’s something else. Something harder to name.

The girls in the hallway giggle behind textbooks. The boys crack jokes they don’t understand the meaning of. The other teachers smile too quickly when he walks past. And yet, no one really knows anything about him.

No social media. No photos. No past.

So of course, I decide to find out.

I tell myself it’s curiosity. That it’s academic, even. But maybe it’s something else. Maybe it’s because when he looks at me, he doesn’t look through me like the rest of them. He sees me. Really sees me.

And that should scare me. But it doesn’t.

Not yet.

Because the first time I stay after class, it’s just a question about the assignment.

The second time, it’s not.

The way he speaks to me when we’re alone—measured, careful, but undeniably different—makes my chest ache in places I didn’t know could feel anything. There’s a line between us, drawn clear and sharp, but neither of us seems particularly interested in staying on our side of it.

He never says anything wrong. Not out loud.

But silence has a way of filling with meaning. And his silence says everything.

I know what this is. I know what it isn’t. I know what could happen if we fall.

And still—I keep going back.

It’s Thursday. Fourth period. Everyone else has already filtered out, laughter echoing down the hallway. I stay in my seat, my pen still in my hand, though I stopped writing ten minutes ago.

He doesn’t look up right away. Just finishes stacking a few papers on his desk, slow and deliberate. Then:

**"You know the assignment’s not that hard,"** he says, not turning to me.

**"I know,"** I answer. **"That’s not why I stayed."**

****

He pauses. Just for a second. Long enough to notice.

**"Then why did you?"**

****

I don’t have a good answer. At least not one I can say out loud. So I just shrug.

**"Maybe I like the quiet."**

****

Now he looks at me. And I mean really looks at me—eyes locked, jaw tight, like he’s doing some kind of moral math in his head.

**"Careful,"** he says, voice low. **"That kind of honesty is dangerous."**

****

**"Only if it’s returned."**

****

There’s a silence after that. Heavy, but not uncomfortable. Like something waiting to happen.

He leans back against the edge of his desk, arms crossed, watching me like I’m an equation he doesn’t want to solve.

**"You’re not like the others."**

****

**"I get that a lot."**

****

**"No,"** he says, **"I mean it. The others don’t listen. They don’t see. They just want something easy. You…"**
He trails off. Shakes his head.

**"I what?"** I push.

**"You want the truth. Even if it ruins you."**

****

And suddenly, the room feels too warm. Too close. Like there’s no space between us even though we’re feet apart.

I stand. Slowly. Not to leave—just to close the distance by inches.

**"Maybe I’m already ruined."**

****

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just says:

**"Then you shouldn’t be here."**

****

**"But I am."**

****

Another silence.

This one louder than anything else.

He just watches me. Like he’s memorizing the exact way I’m standing. Like if he let himself, he’d do something he couldn’t take back.

**"You should go,"** he says finally, but it comes out like a suggestion. Not a command.

I don’t move.

**"You didn’t answer my question,"** I say.

**"Which one?"**

****

**"Why you look at me like that."**

****

He exhales, slow and tired, like the weight of the moment is settling somewhere between us.

**"Because I forget myself when I do."**

****

It’s quiet after that. I look at the clock, though I don’t register the time. Just a gesture. Something to anchor myself.

**"You haven’t done anything wrong,"** I tell him.

He lets out the smallest laugh, almost bitter.

**"Not yet."**

****

And I don’t know what that means—if it’s a warning, a promise, or both.

I take a step back toward the door.

He watches me leave like he wants to stop me, but doesn’t. Like he knows that letting me go now is the only thing keeping him intact.

As I reach for the handle, he speaks one last time.

**"Don’t stay late tomorrow."**

****

I glance over my shoulder.

**"Why not?"**

****

He doesn’t answer.

He just looks down at his hands, folded on the desk like a prayer, and says nothing at all.

I step out into the hallway, the door closing behind me with a soft _click_.

It’s quieter now—most of the school has already moved on to the next period. I walk slowly, not in a rush to get anywhere. My fingers trail along the lockers as I go. Cool metal. Something real.

I shouldn’t be thinking about him like this.

But I am.

I don’t want a boy. I’ve never wanted one. Not the ones who stumble over their feelings, say stupid things and laugh it off like it’s charming. Not the ones who confuse control with confidence, or think desire means ownership.

I want a man.


Someone who knows what he wants.


Someone who knows _me_.

Who speaks with intention. Who says what he means and means it the first time—without apologizing for the truth of it. Someone who doesn’t make me carry the weight of their silence or decode every half-hearted sentence like it’s a riddle I didn’t ask to solve.

He—_Mr. Franklin _—he speaks like that. Like his words have been carved, not thrown. Like every sentence has a spine. And when he looks at me, it’s not confusion. It’s restraint.

He knows.


And that scares me.


And I want it anyway.

By the time I get to the courtyard, Amy’s already sitting at our usual bench. Sunglasses on, iced coffee in hand like she’s starring in a teen movie no one’s filming.

**"You disappeared after fourth,"** she says, not even looking up from her phone. **"I was gonna fake a fire drill to come find you."**

****

I drop my bag beside her and slide into the seat.

**"I stayed after. Had a question."**

****

She peeks over her glasses, one brow raised.


**"With ****_him_****?"**

****

I say nothing.

**"Girl…"** she whistles, long and dramatic. **"Tell me you didn’t."**

****

**"I didn’t. Nothing happened."**

****

**"But something ****_almost_**** did?"**

****

I look out at the campus, the sun glaring off the windows. I don’t answer.

Amy shifts, serious now.
**"You’re playing with fire."**

****

**"I know."**

****

**"And you don’t care?"**

****

**"I do. But sometimes I like to get burned."**

****

She takes a sip of her drink, studying me.

**"So what happens now?"**

****

I pick at the frayed hem of my sleeve.
**"I try to pretend I don’t want to see him again tomorrow."**

****

Amy snorts.


**"Yeah. Good luck with that."**

****

**"He told me not to stay after class tomorrow,"** I say, stealing one of her fries. **"And he didn’t even explain himself. I don’t know what he means by that."**

****

**"A problem,"** she says, sipping her coffee, **"means he’s turned on by an 18-year-old and doesn’t know how to act."**

****

**"You’re saying this like I don’t already know he just graduated. He was going to college with 18-year-olds. It’s nothing new to him."**

****

Amy shrugs. **"Yeah, but those 18-year-olds didn’t sit in desks with Scantron sheets and high school ID cards. You’re legal, sure. But it’s the setting. The power thing. The job thing."**

****

I stare at the table, lips pressed.
**"I’m not a child."**

****

**"I never said you were,"** she says, gentler now. **"But he’s still the adult in the room. And if he forgets that, even once—he loses everything. You walk away with a story. He walks away with handcuffs or no job. Or both."**

****

I sigh. **"I don’t want to ruin him."**

****

**"Then why do you keep showing up late after class?"**

****

I go quiet. She watches me, waiting.

**"Because I like the way he listens,"** I finally say. **"Because he makes me feel like my brain matters. Like I'm not just another face in a hoodie and sneakers and eyeliner. I feel... real. When I’m in that room."**

****

Amy nods slowly. **"That’s the thing, though. You are real. You deserve someone who sees that—without making it complicated. Without making it dangerous."**

****

I smirk faintly. **"So what? You think I should go flirt with a guy who stares at my chest in the cafeteria and can’t spell 'you're' in his texts?"**

****

**"No,"** she says. **"I think you should be careful not to confuse maturity with mystery. And being wanted with being respected."**

****

That one stings, just a little.

But I don’t argue.

Because Amy's not wrong.


She’s just not him.

**The Next Day**

****

All morning, I try to convince myself I’m not staying after class.

Third period drags. I reread the same paragraph three times before realizing I’ve highlighted nothing but the margins. I can’t focus. I keep catching myself glancing at the clock, counting down.

By the time fourth period rolls around, I already know I’ve lost.

I walk in early. Not because I’m eager. Not _just_ because I’m eager. I want to see if he looks at me differently after yesterday. If he avoids eye contact. If he’s colder, more careful.

But he doesn’t avoid me.


He doesn’t even flinch.


He just nods as I take my seat, like nothing has changed—but _everything_ has.

He starts the lesson. He keeps his tone even, keeps his hands busy writing on the board, but I can feel the weight of it. The shift. The awareness. Every time he calls on someone, every time his gaze brushes past me, it feels like a test we’re both pretending not to take.

I answer a question I don’t even remember hearing. He nods like he expected it from me. Like he always does.

And then, just like that, the bell rings.

Chairs scrape. Backpacks zip. Voices rise. Everyone starts to leave.

I don’t move.

Not right away.

He doesn’t look at me—not directly—but he says it again, this time quieter, almost under his breath:

**"Don’t stay."**

****

It should be enough. That should be the end of it.

But I move slowly, deliberately. Gather my things, toss them into my bag like I’m buying myself more time. I take a breath. Turn to the door.

My hand’s on the handle when he finally speaks again.

**"You stayed anyway."**

****

I glance over my shoulder.

**"You like when I stay.”**

****

He’s standing by his desk, arms crossed, face unreadable. He studies me like he’s trying to decide if I understand the rules he’s not allowed to say out loud.

**"This can’t become a habit."**

****

**"It already is."**

****

He swallows. Looks away. Something flickers in his jaw—tension, regret, something else entirely.

**"You think this is just curiosity,"** he says. **"But it isn’t. It’s dangerous. For both of us."**

****

**"Then stop me."** My voice is soft. A challenge, not a threat.

He doesn’t. He just closes his eyes for a second—one long, conflicted moment—and when he opens them again, something’s pulled back into place. A wall. A line.

He walks to the door. Opens it. Stands aside.

**"I won’t ask again."**

****

And that—_that_—hits harder than anything else could. He’s throwing me out. He’s running away.

I step past him without saying another word.

And just like that, the door clicks shut behind me.

Again.