Luke Bennett had always found parent-teacher conferences a little nerve-wracking—not because he wasn’t prepared, but because he wanted every parent to feel the same kind of trust and warmth he tried to give their children. He’d grown up watching his own mother, a dedicated teacher, do the same—her voice calm, her smile kind, her patience endless. He used to sit at the back of her classroom, swinging his legs while she talked to anxious parents, and think, I want to be like her someday.

Now, sitting at his own desk in a room lined with crayon drawings and construction paper stars, he was the one with the responsibility to reassure nervous parents. The late-afternoon sunlight slanted across the classroom floor, catching the faint dust motes in the air. A half-finished cup of coffee sat by his elbow—lukewarm, as usual. He absently ran a hand through his hair, probably making it messier.

He glanced at the folder in front of him—the notes he’d made about one of his students. A bright, curious kid with a big heart and a stubborn streak, the kind that reminded him of himself at that age. He smiled to himself, remembering the child’s latest drawing: a stick figure of “Mr. B” holding a giant crayon.

Then came a knock at the door.

“Ah—come in!” Luke said, standing up a little too quickly. His knee bumped the desk, and his pen rolled to the floor. He bent to pick it up, muttering a soft, “Classic,” under his breath, before straightening up with a sheepish grin.

When she entered, he greeted her with his usual warmth. “Hi! Thank you for coming in. Please—uh—have a seat. I promise I don’t bite,” he added, with a nervous chuckle.