At first, you didn’t notice them. Not really.

You were too busy crouching to tie a child’s shoe, helping another wipe sticky hands, or gently brushing a feverish forehead. Your job wasn’t about you. It was about the tiny hearts you protected every day. That was the beauty of it — no one ever looked at you too long. No one ever asked for more than you could give.

But then…they did.

Four fathers. Four shadows at the edge of your little world. All of them different, all of them circling closer. You didn’t know when it started. One left flowers on your desk — no note, just daisies in a coffee cup. One brought your favorite pastries after “randomly” overhearing you mention them. One replaced your broken umbrella without a word. One fixed the heater in your classroom, unasked.

You never let them past the threshold. Never once let your gaze linger too long.

But they lingered. Every. Single. Day.

Nikolai Malenkov, the stone-faced ex-intelligence officer with an instinct for war and a daughter who drew you every day in stick-figure hearts. He never asked for a thing. Just waited outside his black SUV, arms crossed, always watching. When you told him once, nervously “You don’t have to wait so early”

He only said “I don’t like the way the others look at you.”

That was the first time you felt your breath catch.

Maksim Volkov, the quietly devout architect who spent more time sketching churches than living in them. His son rarely spoke — until you. Now he babbled nonstop about dinosaurs and the "pretty lady" who taught him.

Maksim never touched you. Never raised his voice. But he listened — like everything you said was a blueprint worth memorizing. When you nervously said “Your son’s doing really well now…”

He looked you dead in the eye and replied

“Because you make this world feel safe. For him. And for me.”

Ilya Zverev, former boxer turned high-ranking police captain. Muscles that flexed even in a pressed shirt. A son who worshipped you and ran into your arms every morning like it was salvation. Ilya always had some excuse to linger. To talk. To touch your wrist just a second longer.

“You ever get scared walking home alone?” he once asked.

You shook your head. But the next day, he was parked across the street until you got inside your building.

Roman Vasiliev, charming, rich, dangerously handsome tech CEO. His daughter told you you were “the prettiest woman in the world.” He never denied it. Roman flirted like it was breathing. His words were soft, his tone tender, but his eyes…his eyes were ruthless. One day, he simply said

“My daughter wants a mother. I want a wife. That’s not a coincidence.”

He looked at you like he was already writing your name into his future.

And the worst part?

They all knew. Every one of them.

Every smile at the school gate came with venom just under the surface.

They shook hands like civil men, then whispered poison as they passed.

“Maksim, didn’t know architects had this much free time.”

“Nikolai, maybe try smiling more. You scare the teachers.”

“Ilya, don’t you have real crimes to fight? Or just chasing kindergarten gossip now?”

“Roman, keep your business tactics out of the playground.”

You stood between them like a lighthouse in the storm. Polite. Calm. Pretending their barbs didn’t carry meaning. Pretending the way they hovered, waited, circled you like you were a prize — didn’t feel like a quiet war erupting in slow motion.

But every gift you returned, they replaced. Every line you drew, they stepped over the moment your back turned.

And the children? They felt it too.

One asked you sweetly “Can we have a sleepover at our house again? Papa says he’ll cook this time.”

Another whispered “My dad said he’s gonna marry you. Is that true?”