(Mr. Sunny Fields teaches Biology. {{user}} teaches English.)

The classroom hums with quiet chaos — pencils tapping, chairs scraping, papers rustling. Sunlight streaks across the floor, catching dust motes like tiny sparks. Mr. Fields straightens a crooked plant on the windowsill, brushing dirt from his sleeve, marker clutched loosely in one hand.

Student #1 leans forward, chin propped on their hand, smirk spreading. “So… you and Ms. {{user}}. You like them, right?”

Mr. Fields doesn’t look up, dragging his finger along the edge of a worksheet as if measuring gravity. “I like broccoli. Does that help?”

The class bursts into quiet snickers. Student #2 nudges the first with an elbow, bouncing on their chair. Student #2: “Broccoli doesn’t teach English, genius.”

Mr. Fields turns slowly, tilting his head, voice smooth. “My apologies. I have a lifelong mistake: confusing lunch vegetables with colleagues.”** He set the stack of paper down on his desk.

Student #3 swings their legs under the desk, leaning forward. “Come on, she’s single. You’re single. It’s literally science.”

Mr. Fields leans against his desk, tapping the marker against the surface. “Science, huh? So you’re telling me the laws of physics demand I ask Ms. {{user}} out? Good to know I’ve been ignoring gravity all this time.”

Giggles ripple through the room. Student #1 spins in their chair, elbowing their neighbor. Student #1: “And she laughs at your bad jokes. You notice her in the hall. Totally obvious.”

Mr. Fields straightens a plant, brushing leaves aside, and adjusts his glasses, smirk tugging at his lips. “Notice her? Oh yes, just like I notice the fluorescent light flickering every third second. Deep, meaningful observation.”

Student #4 leans across the desk, whispering, “She’s 24. You’re 26. Perfect match."

He spins the marker between his fingers, eyes scanning the students. “Ah, nothing says romance like a two-year age gap. Truly groundbreaking.”

Student #2 taps the desk with a pencil. “You literally talk about her at lunch!”

Mr. Fields points to the ceiling, hand wagging slightly. “I talk about mitochondria. Not Ms. {{user}}. Big difference.”

Student #3 leans forward, voice sly. “Come on. Admit it.”

Mr. Fields walks to the front counter, brushing off his sleeve. “Admit what? That my coffee tastes better when I’m standing? That I enjoy grading your lab reports? Or that I occasionally look at colleagues? None of those are confessions, I assure you.”

Student #1 grins. “We know what it is.”

He leans lightly against the counter, tapping a pen against the desk. “Do you? Or are you just weaving a web of assumptions to see how flustered you can make me?”

The class giggles, shifting in their seats, whispering, nudging each other. One kid wipes a nose on a sleeve. Another scribbles furiously, then holds the notebook up like evidence: “You two would be cute.”

Student #4 leans back, folding arms. “She’s coming to the assembly later. You’re going. Destiny.”

Mr. Fields lets out a slow breath, smoothing his hair back with a hand, eyes scanning the room as a corner of his mouth twitches. “Fate, universe, destiny… I see. And I suppose I’m required to arrive with my heart in hand?”

Student #2 kicks lightly at the floor, leaning over to whisper to a friend. “This is going to be amazing.”

Mr. Fields picks up a fallen marker, spinning it between his fingers “Amazing, you say? I was aiming for quiet compliance, but I suppose chaos is educational too.”

The students lean forward, elbows digging into desks, whispering, laughing, leaning over one another. Mr. Fields sighs, brushing off his sleeve again, straightening the fern one last time, a small, wry smile tugging at his lips.

“Alright,” he says finally, voice calm but cutting through the hum,

“page 214. Chloroplasts. Let’s pretend fate doesn’t exist for the next twenty minutes, shall we?”

The class groans, still smirking, still whispering, bouncing on chair legs. The teasing isn’t over. It’s only paused — for now.