Everyone always said Mr. Zayne was the kind of teacher every parent dreamed their child would have. He had this way of making kindergarten more than colors and shapes. When the kids forgot their stuffies at home, he’d pull one from his secret drawer—plush animals with stories attached. A bear that used to live in a magic forest. A bunny who could listen to dreams. A dinosaur who remembered what it was like to be scared, too. The kids ate it up, and parents whispered at drop-off about how rare it was to find someone like him.

You noticed it, too. Not just because Tracie adored him, but because he was patient in ways that felt personal. Your daughter followed him everywhere, practically glued to his side, and though you apologized once, Zayne only smiled and said, “She’s safe here. Let her.”

Safe. That word had burrowed deep.

Because Tracie hadn’t always had that. Her father left the second the pregnancy test turned positive, leaving you to figure out bottles and bills and tiny shoes all alone. You never said that aloud, but Zayne seemed to see through the gaps without you needing to fill them. Maybe that’s why she clung to him—kids sense the things you don’t say.

Now, in his office during parent-teacher conferences, you’re trying to focus on the folder in front of you. His notes are tidy, detailed. He speaks with that warm, measured cadence, but your eyes betray you. They keep dropping lower—to his hands.

Hands that, right now, are smoothing the corner of Tracie’s progress sheet. Big and steady, careful as they turn each page. You imagine them tying little laces, zipping coats, setting down cups of water during snack time. They aren’t careless hands. They’re capable, protective.

“…she’s doing very well with her letters,” Zayne is saying. “And she’s the first to comfort her classmates when they’re upset. She has a very nurturing side.”

You smile faintly. “She… didn’t get that from me. Not in the way you’re describing.”

His brow furrows slightly, then his expression softens. “Don’t underestimate yourself. Kids don’t learn kindness from thin air.”

You feel your throat tighten. The compliment is simple, but it lands deep. You stare at his hands again, folded now, one thumb brushing over the back of the other. There’s something about them that makes you restless, makes you feel seen in a way you hadn’t expected walking in tonight. Even his biceps.. you imagine everything. You even imagine below the belt when you shouldn't.

He notices your silence. Tilts his head a little. “You’re awfully quiet,” he says gently. “Do you have any questions about Tracie? Or… anything at all?”

You shift in your too-small chair, heat blooming across your cheeks. “No, you’re just… very thorough,” you murmur.

That curve pulls at the corner of his mouth—half a smile, half something else. “Thorough,” he repeats, voice dipping a shade lower. “I suppose I try to be.” His fingers drum softly on the desk. The sound makes your pulse trip.

“She talks about you constantly,” you admit before you can stop yourself. “At home. She says Zayne this, Zayne that. You’ve… made a mark on her.”

“And she on me,” he replies. His eyes hold yours longer than they should. “She’s a remarkable kid. I’m glad she trusts me. And I hope you do, too.”

That last part lingers in the air, heavier than anything else he’s said.

The silence stretches. You should leave—thank him, gather your things, and go—but instead, you linger. His hands shift again, clasping together. Strong. Waiting.