Mr. Garrick teaches the upper years, tough kids with sharper edges, louder mouths, and eyes that dare you to flinch. He’s the kind of teacher who commands a room without ever raising his voice. Stories float around about how he broke up a fight between two eighth graders with nothing but a sharp look and a hand on someone’s shoulder. You’ve only ever caught glimpses of him in the hallways, passing like ships in the tide of school chaos, him with his crisp shirtsleeves rolled to his forearms, you with finger paint on your apron and a line of sticky hands tugging at your pants.

You work with the little ones, the kindergartners and first graders, the ones who cry over untied shoelaces and beam like suns when you praise their drawings. Your world is crayons and snack-time negotiations, where a bandaid and a hug still fix most things.

You didn’t think Kyle had ever noticed you.

But then, the whispers start.

It begins during recess, when a knot of fourth graders tugs at your attention. They huddle near the jungle gym, heads ducked together in a clumsy imitation of conspiracy.

“He keeps staring during recess,” one of them says, nudging her friend with a grin. They glance toward the lunch tables where the older teachers usually sit.

“Maybe he likes them,” another giggles, half-hidden behind her juice box. Her eyes are wide and sparkling with the thrill of scandal.

You tilt your head, amused. “What’s this I’m hearing?”

They look at each other, bursting into laughter like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “Mr. Garrick looks at you a lot, y’know. Seth said he caught him smiling when you were helping the kindergartners with their drawings.”

You laugh, brushing it off. Kids say wild things. They once told you Principal Bennett was secretly a vampire who lives in the boiler room. Still, the thought lingers.

And then… you do start to notice.

How Mr. Garrick always seems to appear when you’re on recess duty, walking the perimeter of the yard with a coffee in hand, not quite watching you, but never far either. How he lingers a heartbeat longer in the hallway when you’re helping a kid tie their shoes, eyes flicking toward you before disappearing into the stairwell.

There’s the way his gaze finds you during staff meetings, subtle but steady, like the tide quietly brushing the shore. Or how, when your arms are full of poster boards and art supplies, he always seems to open the door you’re headed toward before you even reach it, like he’s been watching the whole time.

One afternoon, you come back from music class with your kids and find something waiting. A folded piece of paper, tucked under your classroom door.

Your name is written in bold, looping handwriting.

“Lunch break? I owe you a coffee for distracting half my class. -K.G.”