They left the café just after 9.
Nate slid into Ms. Kim's passenger seat with all the ease of a golden boy unbothered by the weight of the world. Callum watched them pull away, waving awkwardly when Ms. Kim called, "Drive safe!"
Evans stood beside him on the curb.
"I don't drive," she said casually, lifting one shoulder. "Not legally, anyway. I failed the test last year."
He blinked. "You're eighteen."
"Barely." She smiled, that damn lip gloss catching the streetlight. "Guess I'm just a bad driver."
Callum sighed. "Get in."
She wore a sundress. Something soft and white, hem just above her knees. When she climbed into the passenger seat, it rode up slightly, and he did not look. Not directly.
But he felt it.
Like heat crawling under his collar.
He pulled out onto the road, focusing hard on the lines. The turns. The silence between them.
And then she crossed her legs.
Slowly.
He swallowed.
"Thank you for the ride," she said softly, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.
He nodded once, hand gripping the wheel too tightly.
"You were funny tonight," she added. "With Ms. Kim. You looked like a… normal person."
"I am a normal person," he muttered.
"You just don't act like it at school."
"That's the job."
"Still," she said. "It was nice."
The dress clung to her thighs when the car turned. His eyes flicked toward her—just for a second—and regret slammed into his chest like a fist.
Because he was hard.
Again.
And this time it was obvious.
He shifted in his seat, trying to discreetly adjust himself.
God help him.
When he pulled up to her address, he expected… a house. A modest apartment building. Something middle-class. Normal.
But what he found instead was a luxury high-rise with mirrored glass and a front desk visible through the doors.
He stared.
"This is where you live?"
"Mhm."
"Who do you live with?"
She looked at him and smiled faintly. "No one."
He blinked. "Your parents?"
"They're around. Just not here."
He exhaled slowly, something tight and sour coiling in his gut.
She unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned toward the dashboard, tapping a note into her phone.
"I'm in 14-B. If ever… you need to find me. Door code is 0314."
He turned toward her, stunned. "You shouldn't tell people that."
She paused, then looked at him with wide, open eyes. "Why?"
"Because it's dangerous," he snapped. "Because someone could take advantage of that. Jesus, Lara."
Her lower lip trembled slightly.
And fuck—he felt bad for raising his voice.
She looked down. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I didn't mean to make you mad."
She turned toward him. Her voice quiet. Fragile. "It makes me sad. When you get mad. I hate it."
And then—before he could say anything—she leaned in.
Pressed a kiss to his cheek.
Soft.
Warm.
Quick.
He froze.
She pulled back, eyes on his again.
"I really admire you," she whispered. "You're a good man. I love seeing you act like one."
Then she opened the door, stepped out, and disappeared into the building without another word.
Callum sat there, her kiss still burning on his skin.
Her door code playing on repeat in his mind.
And his hands?
Still gripping the wheel like if he let go, he'd crash the car without moving.
The moment he shut the apartment door behind him, the silence wrapped around him like a punishment.
Everything felt still. Too still. As if the room itself was waiting—watching him.
He tossed his keys on the counter, stripped off his jacket, and dropped onto the couch with a heavy breath. His cheek still burned from the kiss.
He touched it without meaning to.
Her lips. Soft. Barely there.
I really admire you.
The words hit harder than the kiss.
He stared at the floor for a long time. Tried to distract himself. Made tea. Tried to grade papers.
But her name—Lara—was scribbled across half of them. Her handwriting. The soft curl of her L's. The neatness. That tiny smiley face she put beside her name, once.
He didn't realize he'd stood up until he was in front of the drawer.
The drawer.
Locked. Always.
He pulled the key from the chain around his neck. It clicked open like muscle memory.
Inside: a ribbon. A sticky note. A button. Her hair clip. And—
The gloss.
Soft pink. Slight shimmer. Used, but not empty.
He picked it up.
Stared at it like it was radioactive.
You're a good man. I love seeing you act like one.
Callum sat back, the lip gloss in his palm.
His pants tightened. The ache had never left since the car ride home.
He tried to fight it.
Tried to reason.
But the fantasy had already slipped in. The way she smiled at him across the table. The way her lips glistened. The way she whispered that she hated when he was mad at her. Like he mattered. Like he was hers.
His hand moved before he could stop it.
Just this once.
Just this time.
He leaned back on the couch, unzipping slowly, eyes shut, one hand sliding over himself while the other clutched the gloss—tight—like if he let go, she'd vanish from his mind. His breath hitched.
It was disgusting.
It was wrong.
But the more he pictured her smile, her soft voice, the way she stumbled into his arms like she belonged there—the harder it got to stop.
He came fast.
Too fast.
Breath shallow. Heart racing. Shame crawling up his throat like acid.
And then—silence again.
Worse than before.
He looked at the gloss in his hand. Sticky now.
His stomach turned.
He stood immediately, went to the sink, washed his hands like he was scrubbing off a sin.
But it clung.
She clung.
And when he looked in the mirror above the sink—
He didn't see a good man.
Just a teacher who'd crossed the line in his mind.
And didn't know if he could ever come back.