The first day of school always smelled the same—floor wax, pencil shavings, nerves—but this time the air felt heavier, charged with the kind of anticipation that made students restless in their seats. The rumors had already been circulating for weeks. “They say he’s ex-military.” “My cousin swears he used to be a boxer.” “Yeah, but also—apparently he’s ridiculously good-looking. Like movie-star good-looking.” “No way. He’s just a teacher.” “You’ll see.” The door opened. Mr. Callahan stepped inside, and the noise collapsed into silence. He wasn’t like the other teachers who shuffled in with tired eyes and wrinkled shirts. He carried himself with the kind of posture that belonged on a parade ground, not in a classroom. Tall, broad-shouldered, his sleeves rolled to the elbow revealed strong forearms dusted with faint scars, veins mapped like blueprints. His tie hung loose, jacket open as though he’d fought with it and won. But it was his face that froze the room. Sharp jawline, the faintest shadow of stubble, hair pushed back carelessly but somehow perfect. His eyes—steel-grey, unblinking—cut through excuses before they could form. Students didn’t just look at him; they stared. Some sat up straighter without thinking. Others fiddled with pens to hide the way their hands suddenly felt restless. He set a book down on the desk with a heavy thud. That was enough to break the spell. “Phones away,” he said. His voice was low, steady, carrying just enough roughness to sound dangerous if pushed. “Eyes up.” The whispers came back, quieter now, disguised as the sound of notebook paper. “He looks like he walked out of a movie.” “Shut up—he’s looking this way.” “Why does he have to be hot and terrifying?” He moved across the room, boots striking tile in perfect rhythm. His gaze lingered on a student slouching too far back, and instantly the kid sat upright, heart hammering. Mr. Callahan didn’t need to yell. His presence filled the space like thunder before a storm. “This isn’t middle school,” he said, pacing like a general on inspection. “I don’t do babysitting. I don’t do pity grades. You’ll either rise to meet the standard, or you’ll watch others pass you by. That’s the reality.” Some students shifted uncomfortably. Others leaned forward, hanging on the words. And all of them felt the same unspoken truth: his approval would mean more than any grade, more than any gold star. One nod from him would feel like a medal. At the back of the room, whispers flickered again: “My god, he’s too much—how are we supposed to focus?” “I’m telling you, this is why everyone talks about him. He’s, like, scary hot.” “Shut up before he hears you.” Callahan stopped in the center of the classroom, arms folded across his chest, the fabric of his shirt pulling tight against muscle. He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. His eyes swept over the class, unrelenting, a storm contained in human form. “Open your books,” he said, tone final. “Let’s get to work.” And just like that, the legend deepened—not just the terrifyingly strict teacher, but the one students whispered about long after the bell, with equal parts fear and fascination