It started with a touch.
Barely anything. Just her fingertips grazing his sleeve as she reached past him for a marker.
He froze.
She didn't apologize.
Didn't say anything at all, really — just took the pen, moved back to the whiteboard she'd been working on, and kept writing like she hadn't just brushed against the inside of his wrist. Like she hadn't looked up at him a second before doing it and smirked.
He shouldn't have agreed to this. The club planning. The after-hours work session. The excuse to be alone in a room with her past dismissal.
But Principal Ramsey had asked for volunteers.
And Lara had raised her hand.
And he'd said yes.
Stupid.
She stood at the board now, ponytail bouncing slightly as she wrote. She was wearing her uniform again, but somehow, it never looked the way uniforms were supposed to look on students. Her skirt wasn't short. Not technically. But her shirt was fitted. Her cardigan hung off one shoulder. Everything about her said relaxed, but deliberately.
She turned and caught him watching.
Smiled.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing," he said too quickly.
She stepped closer.
There was no one else in the room. No one else in the entire wing. It was nearly five o'clock. The sky had gone orange through the window, and the hallway lights buzzed with the low hum of an empty building.
"You always say that," she murmured. "Nothing."
He didn't answer. Just moved back toward his desk, putting distance between them.
She followed.
God. She followed.
"You're tense," she said softly.
"I'm always tense," he replied, trying to laugh, trying to make it light. It came out dry.
"You don't have to be with me."
"Lara—"
She stepped in front of him. Close. Too close.
"Can I show you something?" she asked, voice low, almost playful.
"No." His voice was firm. Finally.
But she reached for his hand anyway — and pulled it.
Just lightly. Just enough.
He stiffened.
Her fingers curled around his wrist, tugging him gently closer to the board like this was some casual moment, something innocent. But nothing about it felt casual.
"You said the new layout was off. Look." She tilted her head toward the chart she'd drawn. "Does that spacing look uneven to you?"
He didn't answer. Couldn't.
Because he wasn't looking at the board.
He was looking at her.
At how close her body was to his. At the faint sheen of gloss on her lips. At the scent of her perfume — warm and expensive and dangerous. At the soft pulse fluttering in her throat.
This wasn't normal.
This wasn't okay.
He stepped back.
"Lara." His voice was tight. "Enough."
She blinked. "What?"
"You're pushing boundaries."
She tilted her head. "What do you mean?"
He narrowed his eyes. "Don't play dumb."
"I'm not." Her voice dropped. "I just asked you about a chart, sir."
God. Sir.
"Don't do that," he snapped.
Her brows lifted. "Do what?"
"That." He exhaled sharply. "That tone. That look."
She stepped back a little, arms wrapping around herself. Her expression shifted — quick as a knife. Her body language closed up. Her gaze dropped.
"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," she said quietly.
He stared.
"Lara—"
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I really was just asking about the chart."
"You touched me."
"I thought it was okay." Her voice cracked — just slightly. "You always help the others with stuff. You stand next to them. I didn't think…"
She looked up at him, and her eyes were wide now. Vulnerable.
And he felt like a monster.
"I didn't mean anything by it," she said again. "I didn't know it would upset you."
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
His heartbeat was thunder in his ears.
Had he imagined it?
Had he projected the whole thing?
She looked like a child now. Like the girl she was pretending to be. Small. Hurt.
"I'm sorry," she said, taking another step back. "I'll go."
"No," he said immediately. Too fast. "You don't have to—"
"I want to." She grabbed her bag, slinging it over one shoulder, not looking at him. "I didn't mean to ruin anything. I just thought we were… I don't know. I thought you trusted me."
He stood there frozen.
She walked past him.
"Lara—"
"I'll make sure to stay behind less," she said. "I know it's weird."
Her voice was soft. Not sarcastic. Not sharp.
Real.
Or perfectly rehearsed.
And just before she reached the door, she paused.
"I'm really sorry, Mr. Hayes."
And then she was gone.
The door clicked shut.
And he stood in silence, surrounded by the chart on the board, her perfume still hanging in the air, and the sound of his own thoughts spiraling faster than he could catch them.
He didn't go home right away.
He stayed in the classroom until it was dark.
Lights off.
Just the hum of the building settling around him.
He didn't pull out her notebook. Didn't open the drawer. He didn't want to look at anything that belonged to her.
Not now.
Because she looked like a victim.
And he looked like the problem.