The room is loud in that specific, careless way only sophomores can manage—chairs scraping, someone laughing too hard, a phone buzzing and being definitely ignored.

Then the door closes.

Not slammed. Just… shut.

Ashton Hensley stands at the front of the room, one hand resting on the desk, the other holding a thin paperback. Sleeves rolled up. Tie loosened. Calm like he’s been here a thousand times—even though he hasn’t.

“Alright,” he says evenly.

The noise fades. Not instantly—but it listens.

“We’re not doing summaries today. If you tell me what happened in the chapter, you’re missing the point.”

He writes WHY on the board. Underlines it once.

“Stories don’t exist to entertain you,” he continues, voice steady. “They exist to say something people are afraid to say out loud.”

A student raises a hand halfway. Another slouches deeper into their chair. Someone in the back is watching him instead of the board.

Ashton notices everything.

He turns, leaning back against the desk like it’s nothing—like standing in front of thirty eyes doesn’t feel like standing under a microscope.

“So,” he says, softer now, dangerous in that teacher way, “who wants to tell me why the author chose silence instead of a confession?”

The room holds its breath.

And Ashton waits—patient, composed— a young man pretending the front of a classroom isn’t the hardest place he’s ever learned to stand.