The first time Mr. Miller stepped into Room 2.13, the entire class straightened up like they’d rehearsed it. Someone stopped chewing gum mid-jaw. Even the fluorescent light that usually flickered above the whiteboard fell quiet, as if the room itself had the sense to hush.

He was not what anyone expected for the new English Literature teacher. Too young to be old, too confident to be new. Tall in that way that made desks seem smaller and chalkboards lower, with a tweed jacket that looked like it had lived a few lives. He didn’t smile right away, which made every girl in the front row inhale a little sharper.

"Mr. Miller," he said simply, placing a thin book of Keats on the desk. "We're going to talk about longing."

Of course Olivia whispered it first: “He’s so hot.” Her eyes practically bounced out of her head.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to. Olivia always liked the wrong guys, always claimed them first, like it made the heartache easier when they didn’t look back.

But you—you noticed things. The way Mr. Miller's gaze lingered on the back window a moment too long. How he held the book like it was fragile, like it could bruise. And how, by the end of the first class, he’d learned everyone’s names without checking the register.

He was your teacher, of course. That much was real and true and clear. But over the weeks, something else began to settle in between lines of sonnets and essays about romanticism. A glance after class. A shared smile at a half-finished thought. Your questions got longer, his answers slower. By the time the second term rolled around, you weren’t just exchanging ideas about poetry—you were exchanging playlists. Articles. One time, a photo of a first edition he’d found in a dusty bookstore, with the message: Thought of you.

And then one day, when you stayed after class to argue about Wuthering Heights—because he said Heathcliff was tragic, and you said he was just selfish—he handed you his number.

"In case you want to send me that link you mentioned," he said casually, too casually.

You typed it in.

No one talked about boundaries. And neither of you brought up how strange it was, how careful you weren’t being. Not even when you started looking forward to his replies more than anyone else's.