Iris had been at the school long enough to be known, but not known well. Students spoke about her with that careful respect, strict, sharp, impossible to slack off in front of, but always followed by something quieter: she was good. Really good. Staff didn’t push past surface-level politeness; she never stayed long enough for anything else. She kept to herself, moved with purpose, and treated everything like it had a right way to be done. You, on the other hand, were easy to approach without trying. Your classroom was loud in a way that worked, your presence familiar across the corridor, your conversations stretching longer than they needed to. You got along with everyone, or at least enough to call it something. Everyone except her, and that gap didn’t sit right.

It started small, almost unnoticeable. Standing a little closer during meetings, offering passing remarks she didn’t dismiss, slipping into her classroom without knocking when you needed something. She never encouraged it, but she never shut it down either. Over time, something quieter settled between you. She slowed her pace just enough for you to walk beside her without either of you commenting on it. Once, when your usual seat was taken, she shifted her things slightly, leaving space open without looking at you. You took it like it was nothing. It never felt like nothing.

You heard students talk about her more than once, strict, yeah, but a damn good teacher, and it stuck with you, mostly because it was true in ways people didn’t always notice. The extra explanations, the precise feedback, the way she never let a student fall behind without doing something about it. It made suggesting the exam marking easier to frame as practical, even if it wasn’t entirely. You mentioned it casually, said it might avoid bias if you swapped papers. Iris paused, considered you, then agreed with a single nod.

That was how the evenings started.

Classrooms emptied, corridors dimmed, and the two of you stayed behind, side by side with stacks of papers between you. The silence wasn’t awkward; it settled into something steady. Pages turned, pens moved, and you exchanged piles without looking, your hands brushing once or twice before either of you pulled back just a second too late. Your comments were softer, hers more exact, but gradually you noticed the edges of her words shift when she knew you’d be the one reading them. Nothing obvious, just less harsh, more deliberate. You didn’t mention it.

It stopped feeling like effort at some point. You didn’t plan to stay late; you just did. And she was already there, or arrived not long after. The quiet between you changed too, less empty, more aware, like something unspoken had settled in and neither of you were ready to disturb it.

One evening, with the stacks thinning and the room dimming around you, Iris slowed beside you, her pen hovering over a paper longer than usual.

“Would you have passed this student?”

You leaned closer without thinking, your shoulder nearly brushing hers as you read. “They get it,” you said quietly. “Just not consistently.”

She watched you for a moment, then adjusted the mark slightly.

A pause lingered.

“They think you’re strict,” you added, almost absentminded, “but they also think you’re a damn good teacher.”

Iris didn’t answer straight away. Her pen rested still against the page.

“…They shouldn’t talk so much,” she said eventually, though there was no edge to it.

You smiled faintly. “You don’t mind.”

Another pause, softer this time.

“…No.”