Mr. Callum Hayes – Teacher
Fall Semester Begins
There was something wrong with him. He knew it. He knew it from the moment he opened his drawer this morning, saw the silk ribbon lying curled between his fountain pen and spare USB drives—and didn't remove it.
He hadn't even touched it.
Just stared at it.
Her ribbon. Pale lavender. Still holding the faintest trace of whatever scent she wore—expensive, unfamiliar, haunting. She had worn it around her wrist once, just once, before it slid off during lab and dropped near his desk. She hadn't come back for it. Maybe she hadn't noticed. Or maybe… she had left it on purpose.
He had picked it up. Pocketed it. That was two weeks ago.
Now it lived in his drawer. With other things.
Callum leaned back in his desk chair, rubbing his fingers over his temple like he could wipe away the memory of her voice from earlier that day. That same feigned sweetness wrapped around every "Yes, sir," and "Of course, Mr. Hayes," like sugar dust over poison.
She was so goddamn good at pretending. But he could feel it. The way her eyes lingered too long. The way she always sat front row, lips slightly parted like she wasn't really listening but watching instead. Watching him.
And worse—he found himself watching her too.
It wasn't even subtle anymore. He caught himself yesterday memorizing how her shirt collar sat on her neck. Or how she held her pen between two fingers with practiced elegance. Like a girl who had learned how to attract attention and was now bored of getting it.
She was too perfect. Too composed. Too old for her supposed age. He had checked her records the first week—something didn't sit right. Transferred in late, no photo attached, yet her paperwork was pristine. Too pristine.
But he didn't report it. He just stared.
Then today, after class, when she left her notebook behind—an accident, or maybe not—he had kept it.
It sat now in his leather satchel, unopened. Tempting. Heavy with the weight of her handwriting, her scent, her secrets. He would read it tonight. After dinner. After he locked all the doors and pulled the curtains shut like some lonely, depraved man who'd fallen off the rails.
Because that's what he was becoming, wasn't he?
Callum stood and walked to the locked drawer, the one he kept separate from his usual teaching materials. Pulled the key from around his neck. Opened it.
Inside were her things. Little things. Trivial to anyone else. A ribbon. A sticky note with her doodle. A button that had come loose from her coat. And now, the notebook.
He placed it in gently, like it was sacred. Holy.
Then shut the drawer.
And locked it.
He could still smell her on his hands.
Third period arrived.
The classroom buzzed with the low murmur of students settling into their seats, the occasional rustle of a notebook being flipped open, the squeak of sneakers on linoleum. Callum stood at the front, pretending to arrange his lesson plan, pretending to care.
He could feel her before he saw her.
Late, as always. Never enough to get detention, just enough to make an entrance.
Her heels clicked once—twice—before she entered. She didn't rush. She never did. Her movements were smooth, almost rehearsed, like she knew exactly what kind of silence she caused when she walked into a room. Hair tied back lazily today, a few strands left loose by her temple, framing her like art.
And she didn't even look at him when she walked in. Didn't have to.
She just knew.
Callum felt his fingers twitch around the marker in his hand. He turned back to the board before anyone noticed how long his gaze had followed her to her seat.
"Pop quiz," he announced flatly, not turning around. He could hear the groans. He didn't care.
Only one chair creaked.
Hers.
He heard the sound of her crossing her legs—slow, unbothered, like she wanted him to hear it. Like it was for him.
He hated how aware he was of her presence. Every little thing she did rang louder than the rest of the class combined. When she chewed her pen. When she tapped her nails on her desk. When she bit her lip while reading.
She was younger. Off-limits. And yet she looked at him sometimes like he was the forbidden one.
Callum forced his voice steady as he began reading the quiz questions, but his eyes kept drifting. Not to her face. No. That would be too dangerous. Instead, he stared at her hands. Her neat handwriting. The bracelet dangling from her wrist—was that new?
She glanced up, right then, and their eyes met.
One second. Maybe two. Long enough to be inappropriate. Long enough to say everything.
Then she smiled. Just a flicker. Like a secret passed between them.
He looked away first.
Goddamn her.
Goddamn himself.
This wasn't just a student anymore. This was a game. One she was winning. And worst of all?
He wasn't sure he wanted to stop playing.