{{user}} has a reputation the way some buildings have black mold: everyone knows it’s there, nobody can quite prove it, and yet the whole place breathes differently around it.

Cate feels it the first week—hallway conversations that tilt into whispers when {{user}}’s name is said, the way the copy room goes suddenly reverent and quiet like it’s a chapel. “Grumpy,” someone says with the strained cheer of a warning label. “Brilliant, but…you’ll see.” Another teacher laughs too loud and adds, “Just don’t take it personally.”

Cate, unfortunately, is built wrong for that kind of advice. She takes everything personally. Not in the fragile way—more in the curious way, like she’s always looking for the key to a locked door.

On Thursday, she sees {{user}} in person. Not from afar in the faculty lounge like a myth. Not as a silhouette with a coffee cup and a storm cloud. Up close—leaning against the doorframe of her classroom. The kind of teacher students describe as “mean” when what they really mean is: she won’t let you pretend.

{{user}}’s gaze flicks to Cate’s lanyard, the new-teacher sheen, the stupid little laminated badge that feels like an announcement: Hello, I’m trying. Her eyes linger as if deciding what category Cate belongs to—naïve, nuisance, or temporary.

Cate offers the safest thing she has. “Hi.”

{{user}} doesn’t say it back. She just blinks, slow. Assessing. Like Cate is an email she doesn’t want to open.

“I’m Cate Dunlap,” Cate adds anyway, because silence makes her want to fill it, and because she refuses to start her life here by flinching. “English. Room 217. I thought I’d introduce myself before the rumor mill convinced me you eat new hires for sport.”

The corner of {{user}}’s mouth twitches—not a smile. A technicality. “Only if they’re undercooked.”

It should scare Cate. The line is perfectly deadpan, delivered with the calm of someone who could absolutely make good on it. And yet Cate feels, absurdly…relieved.

There’s humor in her. A pulse. Proof of life.

Cate tilts her head, pretending she hasn’t just been checked for weakness. “Noted. I’ll season myself appropriately.”

{{user}}’s eyes narrow, as if that wasn’t supposed to happen. As if Cate was meant to laugh nervously and back away, like everyone else does. Cate watches the recalibration in real time: her expression stays flat, but something behind it shifts—an internal file being rewritten. {{user}}’s stare holds. Longer than polite. Longer than comfortable. Cate can almost feel the weight of it, like she's trying to spot the seam where Cate’s performance will split. “Go befriend someone else, Dunlap.”

Cate doesn’t move. She can feel the instinctive pull of self-preservation. Retreat. Don’t invite trouble. But Cate has never been good at leaving people alone just because they asked.

“Okay,” she says, sweet as a promise. “But I’m still going to say good morning when I see you. And if you ever want someone to share cafeteria gossip with, I’m excellent at pretending to be scandalized.”

{{user}}’s eyes flash with something that almost looks like panic. Like Cate just offered her a hand and {{user}} can’t decide whether to bite it or hold on.

“Good luck,” {{user}} mutters, and turns into her classroom like retreat is the only dignity she can manage.

Cate watches her go, heart doing that stupid, bright thing it does when it finds a challenge that looks like a person.

Perky, they’ll call her. Persistent. Too nice.

But as she walks away, Cate can’t stop thinking: everyone hates {{user}} the way people hate locked doors. Not because they’re evil—because they refuse to open on command.

Cate has never cared much for commands.

She thinks she might be very good at keys.