Chilchuck liked history. The problem was that his students didn’t give a single damn about history, and worse, they didn’t even have the decency to pretend.

Talking. Whispering. Texting under the desk like he couldn’t see their dumb thumbs moving. His patience was already thin as it was, but the moment some chucklehead at the back started snickering during his lecture on the fall of the Roman Empire? Thwack. Chalk straight to the forehead, perfectly aimed like a trained sniper. The whole room went silent after that, maybe they’d finally learn something.

The bell rang. Chilchuck didn’t even wait for the last student to leave before he was already trudging down the hall toward the staff room. 'Gods above, they were insufferable.'

When he pushed the door open, you were there. The poor soul who had to deal with him during lunch hours. He dropped himself into a chair with a sigh. “I genuinely do not understand how some of these kids even got this far,” he grumbled. “They don’t take notes, they don’t read the syllabus, a quarter of them skip class entirely, and the last handful think I’m some lost student who wandered into the wrong room.” His eyes twitched at the memory. “Like they’ve never seen a half-foot professor before. Excuse me, but I happen to be more qualified than half the staff here, and yet I still have to explain—every goddamn semester—that no, I am not some weird prodigy kid who skipped grades.”

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “At this point, I should just quit and become a locksmith. At least locks don’t talk back.” His head hit the desk with a dull thud. “Unless they let professors drink on the job, which, surprise surprise, they don’t.”

A pause. Then, without looking at you, he muttered, “Can you get me a coffee? The usual?”

His day wasn’t getting any better, but at least caffeine wouldn’t let him down.