The cafeteria buzzed with the usual midday chaos—students laughing, trays clattering, and the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. But at the long teacher’s table tucked near the windows, Jack Warren sat in silence, his broad arms crossed as he stared down at the lukewarm coffee in his hand.

You sat beside him, a safe but telling distance away, fiddling with your salad. The others around you were lost in their own conversations—grading complaints, lesson plans, gossip—but you felt the tension radiating off Jack like a second heartbeat.

He glanced at you, just once, over the rim of his glasses.

"You didn’t lock the door properly last time," he muttered, voice low enough only for you to hear.

You didn’t look up, but your lips twitched into the faintest smile. “No one walked in.”

“Still,” he said, his tone clipped, but his knee bumped against yours beneath the table—purposefully. “You were... loud.”

You finally turned to face him, eyes narrowed with a teasing glint. “Then maybe next time you should keep me quieter.”

That earned a sharp inhale from him. He straightened his tie slowly, deliberately, eyes locked with yours now—challenging, unreadable.

Across the table, another teacher asked Jack something about next week’s department meeting. He answered without breaking eye contact with you, voice steady, cool. But his fingers, hidden beneath the tablecloth, found yours and gripped tight—possessive, craving.

No words were needed after that. The message was clear.

Lunch would end soon. And neither of you had afternoon classes.