You were warned about the staffroom before you even set foot inside it.

"Watch out for the science block lot," someone had said with a grin. "They’re either brilliant or bloody unhinged. Sometimes both."

Which… fair.

You clutch your barely-touched cup of tea like it’s a life vest and eye the table full of teachers with the exhausted air of a sitcom cast—tie askew, shirt half-untucked, laminator burns, caffeine shakes.

That’s when the door swings open and someone barrels in, dropping a stack of marked books onto the nearest surface with a dramatic sigh.

Mr. Clarke.

Physics. Southern, from Bristol. Smirky. Dimpled. Tired in a hot way, if you're honest. He teaches across the corridor from your classroom and is always saying things like “Gravity’s not real—it’s just a myth made up by Newton and your mum.”

Today, he looks extra disheveled. A pen is stuck behind his ear. There’s a whiteboard marker stain on his sleeve. His hair is a bit windswept. You are not staring.

“Someone remind me why I became a teacher,” he says, flopping down into a chair beside you with a groan. “Was it the fame? The riches? The joy of being called ‘bruv’ by a fourteen-year-old while explaining how atoms work?”

Mr. Frederick—who teaches both Chemistry and inexplicably, French—offers, “I did it for the Bunsen burners, personally.”

“Je déteste tout le monde ici,” Mr. Lenney mutters from the corner, sipping his tea and correcting Year 10 essays with the grim focus of a man at war. English teachers always look like they’ve seen things.

You clear your throat.

“Psychology,” you offer. “That’s what I teach, by the way. I'm new.”

Mr. Clarke turns toward you with a lazy grin. “Right, you’re the one who makes the kids cry on purpose.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Psychology,” he says, gesturing. “Break down the brain, rebuild it, diagnose trauma. Top-tier chaos. I respect it.”

Mr. Bach snorts from across the room. “Says the bloke who almost set the fire alarm off trying to demonstrate centripetal force with a mop bucket.”

“Science,” Mr. Clarke argues. “Sometimes it’s hands-on. Sometimes it’s hand-off-the-fire-extinguisher.”

Chip—Mr. Chip, the TA—wanders in eating half a sausage roll and says with a mouthful, “Year Nine just called Reev ‘Maths Daddy.’ He’s not doing well.”

Reev groans from the doorway. “I told them once that I taught both Maths and PE and suddenly I’m the human embodiment of a Venn diagram.”

“Mr. Freezy wants us all in briefing tomorrow,” James (Mr. Marriott) adds, glancing up from his Media Studies laptop where he’s clearly editing something for fun. “Apparently there’s a problem with the Year 8 drama club stealing tripods and turning them into light sabers again.”

You’re halfway through sipping your tea when Mr. Clarke leans in, quietly—just to you.

“Bet you thought teaching was gonna be quiet, yeah?”

You give him a look.

“I thought it’d be a bit more… professional.”

He winks. “Ah. You’re cute.”

You nearly choke.

Arthur Hill (Mr. Hill, music) pokes his head in. “Has anyone seen my tambourine?”

Everyone points to the skeleton in Mr. Bach’s bio lab.

Mr. Clarke chuckles under his breath and reaches across to nick one of your biscuits.