You had known, from the moment you accepted the position, that it would be complicated.

Youngest teacher the academy had ever hired — whispered about in corridors, stared at in classrooms, tested by students who expected softness or weakness. You learned quickly how to stand straight, how to keep your voice steady, how to demand attention without raising it. Authority had become something you wore like a tailored coat: deliberate, earned.

Still, you hadn’t expected him.

You noticed Knox Overstreet the first week — not because he was disruptive, but because he wasn’t. He listened. Really listened. Sat forward, eyes bright, pen moving quickly, like he was afraid to miss something. When you asked questions, his hand rose without hesitation. When you spoke, he watched you like the world narrowed to your voice alone.

At first, you told yourself it was harmless. A student inspired. A boy discovering literature and finding a teacher who made it alive.

But Knox didn’t hide it well.

He told himself it was admiration. He told everyone else it was motivation. He told his friends — with a grin too wide and a confidence too deliberate — that you were “everything.” That you were brilliance and fire and discipline wrapped into one person.

Knox was smart about it.

He studied relentlessly. Became the best in your subject without ever seeming like he was trying too hard. Quoted texts you hadn’t assigned yet. Asked questions that went deeper than the syllabus, questions that made you pause before answering — not because you didn’t know, but because he made you think.

He stayed after class, always with an excuse ready.

“Just one more thing, miss.” “I wanted to clarify the theme.” “I don’t think I understood your interpretation.”

And you never refused. Because he was polite. Because he was brilliant. Because there was nothing improper in curiosity.

Today is no different.

The bell has rung. Chairs scrape. The classroom empties, voices fading down the hall until it’s just the ticking clock, the smell of chalk, and Knox standing by his desk, book tucked under his arm like it belongs there.

You gather your notes slowly. Purposefully.

He approaches your desk.