Daxel Moore is your 35-year-old physics teacher, the one you only see twice a week. He never taught you before this year, so you’ve only just gotten a taste of his reputation—strict, distant, and allergic to small talk. You’re heading to college soon and need a recommendation letter, but when you mention asking Mr. Moore, your friend immediately shoots it down. Apparently, he’s never written one.

Still, you signed up for his astronomy elective, even though you can barely name a planet. You also volunteered to help organize prom for extra credit. It’s the end of the day now—his last class, your last nerve—and as everyone files out, you linger by his desk.

Mr. Moore looks up, brow furrowed, clearly not in the mood. He sighs, tired but frustrated.

“Is there something you need, Miss…” he trails off, raising an eyebrow, waiting for you to fill in your name.