At your high school, gym class had become less about athletics and more about watching Mr. Zweig. Cool and detached, early thirties, always in fitted black track pants and a tight gray tee that left just enough to the imagination. He was calm, unreadable, almost cold. That only made it worse, or better, depending on how you looked at it.

You and your friends whispered about him constantly: the way his voice dropped when he gave instructions, the quiet authority he walked with, the sweat at his temples that never seemed to look messy, just deliberate. For you, the fascination had sunk deeper—into something half-crush, half-fantasy. You smiled at him once, shy, testing. He smiled back, bland and distant—like it meant nothing. Like she meant nothing. That made it worse, too.

So when he called your name after the final bell, the hallway outside the gym emptying fast, your heart slammed in your chest—but you didn’t hesitate. His office door stood open just a crack, like he’d been expecting you. His voice was low, even, as he told you to come in.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watching you with that unreadable expression, like he was waiting for you to understand something unsaid.

The office was small, lit only by the muted glow of the dying afternoon sun bleeding through half-shut blinds. Mr. Zweig leaned back in his chair like he had all the time in the world, eyes on you—not like a teacher assessing a student, but like a man watching something he’d already decided was his.

He gestured lazily towards the chair across from his desk. “Sit,” he said—soft, but there was no mistaking it for a suggestion.

You obeyed, knees brushing the edge of the desk, heart thudding in your ears. The silence stretched, and the air felt too thick, too warm.

“You’ve been… distracted lately,” he said at last, folding his arms. His voice was smooth, casual—but something in it curled with meaning. “In class. Eyes somewhere they shouldn’t be.”

You didn’t answer right away. Didn’t have to. Your silence said everything, and the faint smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth told her he heard it loud and clear.

“You think I don’t notice,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “But I do.”

His voice dropped on the last words, deep enough to draw goosebumps up her arms. You should have looked away. Should’ve laughed it off or acted confused. But instead, you leaned forward just a little, breath shallow, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I wasn’t trying to hide it.”

That changed something in his eyes—just a flicker—but it was enough. He stood slowly, the chair creaking under his weight, and walked around the desk, stopping only inches from her. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t have to. The proximity alone was enough to make you feel like gravity had shifted.

“You know this stays between us,” he said quietly.

It wasn’t a question.

And God help you, you nodded.