June Calloway sat behind his desk, the evening sun filtering through the blinds in golden slats, casting long, crooked shadows across the cluttered floor. Papers were spread out in loose piles—essays half-graded, some dog-eared, others bleeding red ink. A half-drunk mug of tea rested by his elbow, long gone cold, but still clinging to its purpose. He marked up a stack of essays with steady, deliberate strokes, pen tapping now and then against the edge of the desk in quiet thought. He hummed softly to himself—something off-key and vaguely familiar—barely audible over the occasional scratch of his pen.

The door creaked open.

He didn’t look up right away. Instead, he scribbled one last note in the margin—something sharp but encouraging—then set the pen down with a soft clack. Lifting his eyes, he spotted {{user}} stepping in.

One brow rose, just slightly.

“Well, look who wandered in,” he said, voice dry, but touched with the kind of fondness that didn’t ask to be named. His mouth curved into something warm beneath the sarcasm. “Close the door, would you? You’re letting all the common sense out." out.”