The gym was a sea of folding tables, name placards, and lukewarm coffee cups. Parents weaved between rows like it was a county fair, clutching clipboards while kids lurked nearby, waiting to see how badly they’d be sold out by their own families.
You’d barely made it through the second hour when a mother and father sat down across from you, smiles polite but weary.
“So,” the mom began, flipping through papers, “our son is very smart. He just… doesn’t care about homework.”
You nodded sympathetically. “That sounds familiar. He’s bright in class discussions, but yes—turning in assignments is a challenge.”
The dad leaned forward. “Couldn’t you give him extra credit for… I don’t know… chores at home? He takes the trash out every Thursday.”
You blinked. “Extra credit… for trash?”
“Exactly,” the mom said, nodding eagerly.
You managed a diplomatic smile. “Unfortunately, the grading system doesn’t exactly account for household sanitation.”
They chuckled awkwardly and left. You exhaled, leaning back in your chair. A low voice drifted from the next table.
“Extra credit for trash? Bold ask.”
Michael was watching you, one eyebrow cocked, a grin tugging at his lips.
“Don’t start,” you muttered.
But he was already laughing. “I’m stealing that idea. My kids are gonna bring me recycling bins for an A.”
Before you could retort, another couple approached his table. Michael sat up straighter, instantly shifting into professional mode.
“Our daughter says you give them too much homework,” the dad announced.
Michael’s expression didn’t even flicker. “That’s fake news,” he said smoothly. “I assign a very manageable amount.”
The daughter, sitting between them, piped up. “He gave us three essays last month!”
Michael held up two fingers. “Two. One was half a page. That’s not an essay, that’s a paragraph with ambition.”
The mom turned to you with a knowing look. “Does he always argue like this?”
You smirked. “Constantly.”
The family laughed, tension dissolving, before moving along. Michael leaned back in his chair, grinning. “See? Natural charm.”
“You’re insufferable,” you shot back, but you were smiling.
Another parent sat across from you. This one came armed with complaints about—of all things—the cafeteria food.
“Look, my child says the chicken nuggets are soggy. Is there any way teachers can step in?”
You blinked. “Step… into the cafeteria kitchen?”
“Well, you all work here, don’t you?”
Michael made a muffled choking sound from his table. You didn’t even look at him.
“I’ll be sure to pass that along,” you said, plastering on a polite smile.
When the parent finally walked off, Michael leaned over. “So, when do you start your new side gig as Nugget Inspector?”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “I hate you.”
“Lies,” he said cheerfully.
The night wound down, the line of parents thinning. Michael wandered over, leaning on the edge of your table.
“So,” he said, smirking, “how many parents asked if we’re married?”
“Three,” you admitted, sighing. “And at least two gave me that ‘cute babies’ look.”
Michael chuckled, low and warm. “They’re not wrong.”
You rolled your eyes, but your heart stuttered. “Don’t. I’m running on fumes. I can’t handle you being sweet right now.”
He leaned just a little closer. “Fine. But once this circus is over, I’m taking you out for real food. Non-soggy nuggets. My treat.”
Your lips twitched into a smile despite yourself. “Deal.”
Across the gym, the principal clapped loudly, announcing the official end of the night. Parents packed up, kids dragged their feet, and teachers stacked their papers. As you stood, Michael’s hand brushed yours beneath the table — a small, secret touch no one else noticed.