The classroom was quiet long after the final bell had rung, sunlight spilling across the rows of empty desks. You were still there — books spread open, pencil tapping absently against the margin of your notebook.

“You’re still here?” a familiar voice asked from the doorway.

You looked up to see Mr. David leaning against the frame, sleeves rolled up, that usual half-smile on his face.

“Just finishing the essay,” you said, a little sheepishly. “It’s not coming out right.”

He stepped closer, the faint sound of his boots on the tile. “You say that every time. Then you hand in something that ends up setting the bar for the whole class.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head. "That’s not true.”

“It is,” he said, with that calm certainty that always made you believe him, even when you didn’t want to. He nodded toward the page. “Mind if I take a look?”

You slid the notebook over, and he scanned the words for a moment, lips twitching. “You write like someone who actually feels what she’s saying. That’s rare.”

The compliment made your chest warm. “Guess I have a good teacher.”

He chuckled softly, setting the paper down. “Flattery gets you nowhere — though I’ll admit, you’re still my favorite student to read.”

You smiled, pretending not to notice how much the words meant. “So that means I can hand this in late?”

He raised an eyebrow, fighting a grin. “Nice try. Well... since you asked so nicely...”