It was the first day of the school's annual "Exploration Expo"—three days of club showcases, games, and overcrowded booths with more glitter glue than intellectual substance.
Except for the Math Club.
Callum Hayes, the ever-patient and unfortunately-too-handsome club adviser, stood near their booth setup with a clipboard in hand and a dull headache already blooming behind his eyes.
"Alright," he called, scanning over the list, "we're missing one folding table, and whoever's in charge of the prize wheel needs to finish labeling the segments. No 'mystery punishments.' This is not a carnival."
A few students groaned playfully, and one muttered something about "sucking the joy out of probability," but they moved faster after that.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to ignore the heat, the noise, the low thump of music coming from the performing arts booth across the field.
And then—
"She's here," someone said.
He didn't need to ask who. He felt it in the shift. The drop in conversation. The way a few students glanced toward him, then back to her.
She was walking toward their booth in her Math Club shirt—tight-fitting, sleeves rolled. Hair tied back, cheeks faintly flushed from the sun. Clipboard in hand. Confidence in every step.
"Good morning, Mr. Hayes," she said sweetly. "Sorry I'm late. I was helping with the science team's booth for a second."
He nodded once. Controlled. "You're fine. Just jump in on the data visualization posters. Nate needs help with formatting."
She smiled, brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "Of course."
And she walked right past him—just a little too close.
Callum swallowed tightly.
He tried to stay busy. Directed students. Adjusted signage. Passed out bottle caps for the sorting activity. Checked his clipboard again. The air felt too warm, his shirt clinging uncomfortably against his back.
Eventually, they were left alone.
It wasn't intentional. Just… happened.
The rest of the club had moved on to the other booths or were running last-minute errands. And he was kneeling next to the prize table, organizing the math puzzles, when she dropped beside him.
"Need help?" she asked softly.
He should've said no.
But instead, "Sure. Sort those by level. Easy to hard."
She nodded and reached for the small boxes of puzzles beside him. Their hands met. Just barely. A brush of skin.
He pulled back instantly.
But it had already happened.
Her fingers were warm. Delicate. Soft in a way that made his stomach twist.
He didn't breathe. She didn't speak.
The silence was loud.
Then—she looked at him. Calm. Curious.
"Sorry," he said quickly, standing too fast. "Didn't mean to—"
"It's okay," she cut in. Her voice was light. Unbothered. But her eyes… watchful.
"I just meant—" he started again, but she was already turning her attention back to the puzzles.
"No big deal, Mr. Hayes," she said without looking up.
And somehow, that made it worse.
The ease of it. The dismissal. Like it hadn't meant anything.
Like he was the only one rattled.
He watched her for a second too long, then turned away, pressing a hand over his chest. His pulse was racing. His palm still tingled from the contact.
He needed space.
He needed air.
But most of all—he needed to stop lying to himself.
This wasn't just a crush. This wasn't teenage nonsense.
He was back at the booth an hour later, trying to focus on handing out flyers and keeping the math wheel from falling off its makeshift stand. Kids moved around in excited groups, loud and sweaty, some in costume, others in club shirts—an absolute circus of hormones and glitter paint.
And in the middle of it all—her.
She was standing a few feet away, near the guessing game table, surrounded by a group of senior boys.
He didn't mean to stare.
But God help him—he couldn't not.
There was a boy leaning against the booth beside her, grinning like he thought he had a shot. Jason. Baseball team. Smart in the arrogant kind of way. And she was laughing at something he said, her hand lightly brushing his arm as she tossed her hair over her shoulder.
Every movement she made was so casual. So natural.
Her smile was bright, unbothered. Her voice had that lilting flirtation she never used in his class. She was radiant in the sun, and the boys drank it up like she was handing it out for free.
Jason leaned in closer, said something in her ear. She giggled.
Callum's jaw tightened. His fingers curled into fists at his sides.
He told himself it didn't matter.
Told himself.
She was a student. He was her teacher. This—whatever this was—it wasn't something he was allowed to feel. But the way she smiled at them, like she had smiled at him, the way her eyes lingered just a second too long on each of them, the way she knew the effect she had—
It made his skin crawl.
And it made his chest ache.
He hated it.
Hated the burning jealousy creeping under his collar. Hated how possessive it made him feel. Hated that he wanted to pull her aside and ask her what the hell she thought she was doing. As if he had the right.
But most of all—
He hated that she wasn't doing anything wrong.
Not technically.
She was just being a girl. A smart, beautiful, terrifyingly aware girl. And the boys? They were eating out of her hand. Laughing too loudly. Leaning too close.
Jason handed her a bottle of cold water and she took it with a flutter of lashes that made Callum want to punch something.
He stepped away from the booth without realizing it. Walked toward the back of the tent under the guise of checking supplies. But really—just to breathe.
He gripped the edge of the table, jaw clenched, trying to steady the tremor in his hands.
This was getting out of control.
He wasn't just noticing her anymore.
He was obsessed.
Watching her laugh with those boys made him want to rip the smiles off their faces.
It was disgusting. It was wrong. And still—he couldn't stop.
A voice came from behind him, casual and amused.
"She's a heartbreaker, huh?"
Callum turned. Nate. One of his more observant students. Too observant.
"Who?"
Nate grinned, jerking his head toward the booth. "Evans. You haven't seen the line of guys trying to get her number today? She's got half the school wrapped around her finger."
Callum forced a neutral expression. "It's a school event. People flirt. It's harmless."
Nate raised a brow. "Yeah. But the way she flirts? It's like she's not even trying. That's the scary part."
Callum didn't answer.
He couldn't.
Because he knew exactly what Nate meant.
He'd felt it. Every time she smiled at him. Every time her hand grazed his. Every time she tilted her head just enough to see if he'd look.
She was dangerous.
And he was already falling.