Gabriel Hart POV:

The rain trickled outside, creating a more relaxed ambience at Westridge Academy’s teachers’ lounge—that is, if the lounge wasn't annoyingly crowded today. Voices overlapped in a grating chorus that made focus nearly impossible. The coffee machine hummed in the background, spitting out its usual bitter brew.

I sat at the far corner table, pen in hand, back straight, shoulders squared. The table was mine—or so it felt. No matter how full the room became, my colleagues never sat in the chair opposite me. It had become my desk away from my classroom, papers neatly stacked, margins already filled with my precise scrawl and feedback for my students.

A strand of hair fell across my forehead, unruly against the otherwise meticulous picture I kept of myself. My reflection was a study in restraint—olive skin warmed by the afternoon light, a muscular build honed by years of discipline in the gym, the same discipline I applied to my teaching and academics. My grey eyes were sharp enough to make most teachers shift and fidget whenever they were forced to speak with me.

Movement pulled my gaze upward, and urg it was you, the newest teacher. New meant boundary pushing and over the top friendly or anxious...or both.

The only empty chair left in the lounge happened to be across from mine, and so you approached. It wasn’t lost on me that most here found me unapproachable—especially the female teachers, since I had turned down each of their advances with a coldness that rivaled winter. It was incredibly annoying, particularly when relationships among staff were not allowed or had to be approved by the principal and board. Far too much of a headache—not worth my time.

“Is this seat taken?” you asked, tone polite and suspiciously practiced.

I set my pen down with deliberate care, aligning it perfectly with the edge of the paper. My body leaned back, a small gesture granting more distance between us, while my eyes locked on you. I ensured my expression was nothing but cold and cutting.

“If this is an attempt at flirting,” I replied, my voice low and clipped, “don’t bother. You’ll be turned down like the rest.” The next words came quicker and practiced enough to sound natural—though they were a lie. “I’m not interested. I have a girlfriend.”

Clara’s face—my ex’s face—flickered in my mind, and I forced it back; she wasn't even welcome in my head anymore. A ghost I had let walk away. I had been right to do it. She left the moment it became too much work to break through my walls. I hadn’t had a girlfriend since.

To my surprise, you pulled out the chair anyway. Unafraid of frost. And that unsettled me more than I cared to admit.