The school was quiet now. Long emptied out of noise and color, save for the echo of distant doors and the hum of fluorescent lights overhead. The booths outside had been folded up. The laughter, the flirting, the heat of the day—it all faded into a strange silence.
Callum told himself he was just doing a final sweep.
Just making sure nothing had been left behind.
Except he wasn't.
Not really.
His steps were slow, deliberate. He knew where to go.
Near the Math Club's prize table, tucked beneath a collapsed posterboard and an empty box of paper clips—it was there.
Her lip balm.
Soft pink. Slightly used. Faint shimmer still glinting in the dim light.
He stared at it for a full minute.
Don't do this.
Just leave it.
It wasn't his.
It didn't mean anything.
But his fingers closed around it anyway.
He hated himself.
Hated how familiar it felt now—this ritual. This sick, quiet theft of small things she left behind. Ribbons. A note. A hairpin once, months ago. Now this.
And each time he promised himself: never again.
Each time he broke.
He slipped it into his coat pocket, heart thudding.
Just then—footsteps.
He jerked back, spinning toward the hallway just as a figure rounded the corner.
Nate.
Of course.
Easygoing smile. Backpack slung over one shoulder. Too perceptive for his own good.
"Oh—hey, Mr. Hayes," he said, slowing. "Didn't expect you here this late."
Callum straightened quickly, palms sweating. "Just finishing up."
Nate's eyes flicked toward the table. "Looking for something?"
"No. Just—cleaning. Making sure everything was accounted for."
Nate tilted his head, curious, but didn't press. "Cool. Hey, since I've got you…"
He stepped closer.
Callum's pulse thundered in his ears. Don't notice. Please don't notice.
"So, weird question," Nate went on, eyes bright, casual. "As someone who's, like, objectively a good-looking dude…"
Callum blinked. "Excuse me?"
Nate laughed. "I'm serious! Come on. You've got that tall, 'my trauma is elegant' thing going on. Anyway. How do you ask someone out without sounding like a complete idiot?"
Callum blinked again. "You're asking me for dating advice?"
"Dude, I've seen you shut down half the female staff with a single raised eyebrow. You've got some kind of dark wizardry going on. Help me out."
Callum forced a laugh—strained, dry. "I'm not exactly an expert on teenage romance."
"I didn't say teenage," Nate grinned. "I meant effective."
Callum ran a hand through his hair, heart still pounding. The lip balm in his pocket felt like it was burning a hole into his skin.
He cleared his throat. "Confidence. Clarity. Respect. That's it. Ask directly. Don't play games."
Nate looked thoughtful. "You've definitely done this before."
Callum met his gaze, something tight behind his eyes. "Not as often as you think."
Nate gave a little shrug. "Still. Thanks. I'll try it. Maybe she'll say yes."
Callum's stomach turned.
She.
He didn't ask who.
He didn't want to know.
"Goodnight, Nate," he said instead, voice like sandpaper.
"Night, sir."
Nate disappeared down the hallway.
And Callum—stood there for a long, long time.
When he got back to his apartment, he unlocked the drawer again.
And added the lip balm to the rest.
Then sat down.
And stared at what he'd become.
The three-day event had come and gone. He'd made sure to keep his distance—no after-school meetings, no one-on-one check-ins, no lingering glances. Not a single word more than necessary.
It didn't help.
If anything, it made it worse.
Now he was back in this space with her. Enclosed. Trapped. And his restraint was paper-thin.
She was in the front row again. Of course she was.
Back to that perfectly good-girl posture. Elbows on the desk. Chin resting lightly on one hand. Eyes wide, mouth slightly parted like she was really listening, like every word that dropped from his lips was important. Precious.
She was wearing gloss today.
Not heavy. Just enough to shine.
He turned around to face the class and his eyes caught hers—and for the briefest second, something inside him snapped.
Because she was staring at his mouth.
No mistake.
He saw it.
And the way her lashes fluttered before she looked down at her notebook?
It wasn't innocent.
Not anymore.
"Alright," he said, voice rougher than he meant, "let's move into nonlinear systems."
His marker squeaked against the board, and he hated how it sounded, how it echoed in the heat and stillness of the room.
"She's not doing anything," he told himself. "She's not touching you. Not smiling. Not even speaking."
But it didn't matter.
She was there.
And his body was reacting anyway.
He tried to focus—talked through systems of equations, slope intersections, variable substitution—but the numbers blurred. His throat felt dry. His shirt clung to his back. He rolled his sleeves up higher, needing air. Relief. Something.
He knew it wasn't the heat.
It was her.
Every time she shifted in her seat, he noticed.
The smooth line of her neck.
The way her hair fell just behind her shoulder.
The way her pen twirled lazily between her fingers, catching the light.
God, he was hard.
It was sick.
It was wrong.
It was happening anyway.
He forced his focus back to the board, clearing his throat. "X equals—sorry. Uh—let's reset that step."
He didn't look at her again.
Couldn't.
Not when the scent of her was still stuck in his lungs.
Not when his mind was already crawling with images he had no business entertaining. Not when her lip balm—the one he kept like a psychopath—was still in his drawer at home, right beside her ribbon and her hair clip and the note she scribbled once in a rush.
He gripped the edge of the podium.
Hard.
He wasn't a pervert.
He was a teacher.
He was in control.
"Mr. Hayes?" Her voice. Light. Curious.
He turned slowly.
"Yes?"
She tilted her head. "Are you okay?"
Her eyes were too innocent.
Too knowing.
He gave her a tight nod. "Fine. Just… warm."
She smiled.
And his mouth went dry.
The bell couldn't come soon enough.