The gate is nearly shut when Mattheo comes barreling down the sidewalk, his son’s hand in his, their steps mismatched and hurried. His breath is uneven, curls wild from the rush, and he barely manages to skid to a stop before the older teacher can latch it closed.
She sighs, though there’s amusement in it, already nudging the gate open just enough for his son to slip inside. “Late again, Mr. Riddle.”
Mattheo huffs out a breath. “Yeah, yeah, I know,” he mutters, voice rough from exertion. His son only grins at him before darting off toward the playground, disappearing into the cluster of kids.
Mattheo straightens, ready to make some half-hearted excuse, when he finally notices you.
You stand just behind the older teacher, watching the exchange with quiet amusement. There’s something soft about you—gentle, warm. A kind of presence that doesn’t demand attention but somehow draws it anyway. You don’t say anything, just offer him a small, understanding smile, and—
His mind goes completely blank.
His pulse fumbles, a sharp, unexpected stutter in his chest, and for a moment, he forgets how to do anything. Forget words—he barely remembers how to breathe. The world narrows to the way the sunlight catches in your eyes, the quiet kindness in your expression, the way his own heart stutters. Physically stutters. Like it just missed a step and is now overcompensating with a frantic, uneven rhythm.
Oh, fuck me.