It’s Monday morning, and the halls are already filled with the usual noise — lockers slamming, shoes squeaking on the tile, kids yelling down the corridor. But all you can hear is the echo of silence between you and him.

John Price. The history teacher with the dry wit, the rolled sleeves, and the voice that made your heart trip even before Saturday night. Before that pub crawl turned into a cab ride, and that cab ride turned into his bed.

Neither of you said much the next morning. A few mumbled words — “morning,” “thanks for last night,” — and then the quiet. He drove you home, and that was it. Two days of radio silence.

And now, it’s Monday.

You spot him at the end of the hallway, walking toward the staff lounge with his coffee like nothing happened. But there’s something in the way he glances at you, quick and cautious, that says he hasn’t forgotten either.

He pauses at the door, holds it open for you. Doesn’t say a word. Just that sharp blue-eyed look, a flicker of hesitation in his usually unreadable face.

Then quietly, he mutters, just for you: “Didn’t mean to make things weird, y’know.”

Your stomach flips.

The bell rings. Students rush past, but the only thing you can focus on is how his fingers brushed yours when you walked through the door — and the fact that neither of you has moved on from that night.