The hallway at Capeside High was bathed in that post-school silence, broken only by the sound of your footsteps and the distant hum of a floor waxer. You pressed your History books against your chest, exhausted after explaining the French Revolution for the fourth time that day, when the door to the guidance office opened.

There he was: C.J. Braxton.

He didn’t look like your typical school psychologist. No beige suits or stern expressions. He wore a light wool sweater, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and carried that empathetic gaze that seemed to read the soul of any rebellious student—and, for better or worse, yours too.

"Still here, Professor?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe with a lopsided smile. "Did the Jacobins give you too much trouble today, or are you just trying to avoid the bridge traffic?"

You laughed, stopping in front of him. There was something about C.J.’s voice that instantly lowered your guard. It was a mix of calm and a touch of healthy irony, the same one he used to disarm tensions during faculty meetings.

"A bit of both," you admitted, feeling the weight of the day lift. "And you? Does the shift for teenage sentimental advice never end?"

C.J. sighed dramatically, but his eyes were bright. "It’s an endless cycle. But honestly? I think the one who needs a coffee and a conversation off the clock right now is you. I was going to stop by Hell’s Kitchen before heading home. Care for a ride?"