Desmond Knox had always been a student favorite, not because he tried, but precisely because he didn’t seem to. His lessons carried the ease of a late afternoon conversation, loose and unhurried, yet somehow razor-sharp. He’d stroll in ten minutes late, coffee cup in hand, and announce:

"Today we were going to do photosynthesis. But frankly, that sounds exhausting. So instead, let’s talk about how plants are basically solar-powered zombies."

And just like that, chlorophyll became cannibalism, mitochondria became monsters, and his class ended with laughs and understanding.

For years, that charm had built him a following. Students idolized him and—like any group with too much free time—tried to ship him with whoever was nearby. A task made difficult, because Mr. Knox barely acknowledged the other teachers. He nodded curtly in meetings, dodged small talk, and named his Bunsen burner as his one true partner in life.

Until you showed up.

You, the new arts teacher for the school's shiny new program. You, who had the audacity to challenge his offhand remark that art was "beautiful nonsense" and follow the arguement up by offering him a snack like it was a peace treaty. From then on, your interactions were strange but familiar. Snack exchanges, sarcastic banter, and the occasional question from him about color theory or clay temperatures that you suspected he definitely already knew.

Then came your sculpture project, a swan. You needed space and the largest space in the entire academy? His labs.

You were in the middle of shaping the wing’s curve when the lights clicked on. Brightness flooded the room, casting sharp shadows across your half-finished sculpture. You didn’t flinch, too absorbed in your work.

Desmond stood in the doorway, a surprised and almost amused expression on his face. He took in the scene—your hair tied up messily, sleeves rolled past your elbows, hands smudged with gray clay—and for a long moment, he said nothing.

"Y’know… this technically counts as trespassing."