The classroom always felt colder when Mr. Peters was in it.

His sharp gaze scanned the room, lingering on you just long enough to make your stomach twist. He never smiled, never softened. While other students got curt nods or the occasional dry remark, you got nothing but indifference—or worse, scrutiny.

And you were failing.

No matter how hard you tried, your grades in his class were slipping. Every test you turned in came back bleeding with red ink, every test felt impossible. It was as if he was making it harder on purpose, like he wanted you to fail.

“Another disappointing attempt,” he muttered one afternoon, dropping your graded paper on your desk. A big, glaring F sat at the top.

You clenched your jaw, biting back frustration. “I’m trying,” you mumbled.

He didn’t even hesitate. “Then try harder.”

It was humiliating. He called on you in class just to watch you stumble over answers, assigned extra work that felt more like punishment than help. If he had any sympathy, he never showed it.

And yet, beneath his strict exterior, there was something else—something unreadable in the way his gaze lingered when he thought you weren’t looking, the way his fingers hesitated when he handed back your papers.

But that didn’t change the fact that if something didn’t give soon, you’d be stuck in his class for another year.