You were probably the youngest teacher Welton had ever seen.

Fresh degree. Fresh nerves. Fresh hope that literature—real literature—could survive inside brick walls built to polish boys into obedience. The headmaster had needed someone quickly, and somehow that someone had been you. Three years older than your oldest students. Close enough in age to remember what it felt like to sit where they sat. Far enough to know you couldn’t afford to forget which side of the desk you stood on.

The first weeks were… deceptively perfect.

You were the only woman on campus. That alone commanded attention. Boys sat straighter, answered eagerly, watched every movement of your chalk hand like it mattered. You talked about poetry as if it were alive—dangerous, even. They listened.

Then the novelty wore off.

They started testing you. Questions that weren’t really questions. Side comments. Smirks exchanged across rows of desks. You were young, inexperienced, and they knew it. You held your ground—mostly—but every day took more energy than the last.

And then there was Charlie Dalton.

Charlie didn’t test you. He performed.

Always late, always grinning, always something clever to say that toed the line between charming and insufferable. He raised his hand just to derail discussion. Stayed after class under the pretense of “clarifying themes” that didn’t need clarifying. Leaned in doorways like he belonged there.

You shut it down. Repeatedly. Calmly. Professionally.

It never stopped him.

That week broke you.

You were running on coffee and irritation, papers stacked too high on your desk, patience worn thin. The boys sensed it—like sharks, really—and Charlie pushed hardest. Comments louder. Jokes sharper. That smile a little too pleased with itself.

When the bell rang that day, you didn’t dismiss him.

“Mr. Dalton,” you said, voice clipped. “Stay.”

The room emptied fast. He lingered, slow and theatrical, dropping into a desk like he had all the time in the world.

“You look tense,” he said lightly, smirk wider than ever. “Hypothetically, I could help you relax, Ma’am…”