The clock ticked a slow rhythm on the wall, its second hand scraping time into slices while Callum Hayes sat behind his desk, red pen in hand, a cold cup of coffee to his right. His back ached. He was halfway through grading an embarrassing stack of late essays when the voice came from the doorway.
"Hayes. Got a second?"
He looked up.
Ms. Alvarez. Guidance.
Her brow was pinched in a way that meant admin, not students.
He stood, stretching subtly. "Sure."
They walked the familiar route—past the trophy case, through the hall that always smelled like printer toner and floor wax, and into the guidance office. The lights were too bright in here. The walls were too beige. Every file cabinet seemed to hum with gossip.
Alvarez didn't sit. Just moved to her desk and pulled up a screen. Her fingers clicked once, then twice.
"About Evans," she said.
Immediately, Callum's body went stiff. Not visibly. But internally? Every muscle coiled.
"She's still showing up as pending transfer to Section C," Alvarez continued. "Just need confirmation. Should I process it? Or cancel?"
He stared at her.
For a moment too long.
The right answer was yes.
Say yes. Transfer her. Get her out. Save yourself.
But his mouth said, "She asked to stay. Said she's comfortable. Her friends are in my class."
Alvarez gave a knowing smile. "Teenagers. They hate change."
He nodded, pretending it didn't cost him anything. "Dismiss the request."
"You got it."
She turned back to her screen. Clicked. Saved.
It was done.
Callum walked out of the office like it hadn't just sunk him a little deeper. Not with guilt. Not with shame.
Curiosity.
She stayed after class that day.
Didn't say anything until the last kid was gone. Backpack slung, door swinging shut.
Lara hovered by the side of his desk, hair tucked behind her ear, mouth tugged into something between a smile and something else.
"I just don't want to go home yet," she said, light, like it didn't mean anything. "It's always too quiet there."
He didn't look at her when he answered. "Fine. Just—doors stay open. Windows, too."
"I don't mind."
He didn't move. He had too much to do anyway. The bulletin board by the hallway needed a redesign before Friday. He'd volunteered for it stupidly. No one else wanted the job.
So he stayed. Pulled out the materials, measured out a grid. Cut colored paper.
She watched. Then moved.
"Want help?"
No. He should've said no.
But she was already beside him.
Close.
Not touching. But close.
The scent hit him first. Light, sweet. Something floral. Something chemical.
Perfume.
Her fingers brushed his once, reaching for a thumbtack.
He froze. That was all it took.
His body betrayed him.
Instant.
Hard.
He shifted, carefully, kept his face impassive. He didn't look at her. Focused on the border design. Letters. Lines. Staples.
"You know," she said, after a beat, "Mr. Reyes told me I'm too flirty."
His mouth went dry. "That so?"
She rolled her eyes. "I don't like boys."
He swallowed.
"I like men."
He stopped breathing.
And his cock pulsed, hard and immediate, against the press of his zipper.
He dropped the scissors.
Cleared his throat.
"I need to run to the faculty room," he said too quickly. "Get the rest of the display cards."
He didn't wait for a reply. Just walked.
Fast.
Past the open door.
Into the hallway.
Didn't stop moving until the bathroom door slammed shut behind him.
And even then, his pulse wouldn't slow.
The door shut behind him with a muted click. He didn't head back to his classroom right away. Instead, he ducked into the empty faculty lounge, dropped into the first chair he saw, and opened her file.
Lara Evans
Everything was in order. Too in order.
Her forms were perfect. Every page signed. Every initial logged. Her grades were high, but not suspicious. Clean transcripts. Even club affiliations.
One school listed.
Halemont High.
His school.
Callum blinked. That was a name he hadn't thought about in years. He still remembered the smell of the labs, the teachers who smoked in the lot between periods, the ancient vending machine that took his lunch money twice a week.
He stared at the page. The logo. The address.
Picked up the phone.
Dialed.
The Halemont front desk answered after three rings. A bored-sounding woman picked up. "Halemont Secondary."
"Hi," Callum said, keeping his voice light. "This is Callum Hayes. I'm a math teacher over at Everlin. I've got a transfer student who listed your school. Lara Evans. I was just trying to confirm who her last homeroom teacher was."
Clicking. Typing.
Pause.
"Evans?"
"Yes. Lara. Senior."
Another pause. He can hear her typing on keyboard. "Her student ID is in our archive, yes. The paperwork's here. But I'm not seeing her listed in any of the actual class rosters."
Callum frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," the woman said, voice tighter now, "the name's in the system. But there's no attendance record. No teachers listed. No class codes. Just the name."
He blinked. "So she was... never in class?"
"Not officially. No report cards. No behavior logs. It's like she was enrolled on paper, but never walked into the building."
His throat went dry. "Thank you."
He hung up.
His classroom was empty when he returned.
The lights felt too bright. The windows too quiet.
Callum dropped into his chair and stared at the file again. He flipped it open. Read every line like it might change. Like the page might blink and give him a different answer.
No parents listed. No emergency contact. No medical disclosures. No locker number. Just one note.
APPROVED BY DISTRICT. DO NOT MODIFY.
He opened the drawer.
His drawer.
The one he never touched in daylight.
Inside: her ribbon. Her note. Her hair clip. The lip gloss. A crumpled receipt she left once, deliberately, after buying coffee.
His hand hovered over them.
He didn't feel aroused.
Not now.
He felt hunted.
Who the fuck are you?
He stared at the transcript again. Every answer led him further from logic.
She had no roots. No paper trail. And yet she knew him.
Knew things she shouldn't.
How he liked his coffee. The book he kept in his drawer. The pattern of his schedule.
She hadn't just landed in his class.
She had chosen it.
Callum leaned back in his chair.
Closed his eyes.
A memory surfaced, unbidden:
Her voice. That first week. "You don't remember me, do you?"
He'd thought it was flirtation. Thought it was part of her games.
But what if it wasn't?
What if he had known her before?
What if he just didn't remember?
He opened her notebook again. The one she left on his desk a month ago. The one he never threw away.
Page after page of assignments. Notes.
Doodles.
He flipped to the back.
The last page was different. Torn. A single phrase written in clean, block letters:
DO YOU REMEMBER NOW?
His stomach turned.
This wasn't infatuation.
This wasn't a game.
This was something else.
And he had already let her get too close.
Already said too much.
Already kept too much.
Callum closed the file slowly.
Locked the drawer.