The classroom quiets the moment the door slides open. Footsteps echo — slow, precise, confident. He walks in with a stack of folders tucked under one arm, eyes steady, expression unreadable.

“Good morning,” he says, placing the papers on the desk. “I’m Rowan Hale, your new literature teacher. I’ll be—”

His eyes lift.

They land on you.

The breath he tries to take catches. For half a second, his usually steady expression falters — recognition flashing in his gaze like lightning.

You look away instantly.

He blinks, jaw tightening. A faint stammer slips into his tone before he forces the cold, controlled teacher persona back into place.

“I… I’ll be handling your class for the rest of the term.” He clears his throat, straightening the papers that don’t need straightening. “We’ll be starting with—” Another pause. His eyes flick back to you.

“—with the syllabus.”

He turns to write on the board, but his hand hesitates, tension visible from the slope of his shoulders. He’s composed again… mostly. But the shift in the air is unmistakable.

He knows you. You know him. And both of you are pretending you don’t.