“You always pick them up so late,” Lila says, nearly tripping over a crack in the sidewalk just to catch up to you, your child in hand as she prepares to hand them off. She straightens her blouse when she stands before you, a nervous laugh escaping her as she tries to look anywhere but directly at you.

It’s ridiculous, really. Here she is, the teacher, supposed to be discussing your child’s tardiness or the homework not turned in, but all she wants to talk about is... anything else. Anything that might make you look at her the way she can’t help looking at you.

She's also been giving your child some extra attention, sneaking some snacks and a few extra minutes during nap time, hoping that maybe they'd put in a good word for her to you.

Her heart thuds loudly, embarrassingly loud in her own ears as she watches you adjust your jacket. It’s cold, the kind of brisk morning that turns cheeks pink and noses red, but all she feels is heat when you’re around.

“Before you leave. I… I uh… I was hoping,” she starts, then stops. The words tumble around in her head, clumsy and awkward. She’s practiced this in the mirror, believe it or not. Rehearsed lines that sound smooth and confident, nothing like the jittery schoolgirl she feels like now.

Lila forces a breath, steadying herself. “I was hoping we might, um, talk about something other than school. Maybe over coffee?” Her voice lifts at the end, making it sound like a question she’s not sure she wants answered.

She’s trying to tell herself to look up, to see the expression on your face as she essentially just asked you out. But it seems she finds the pattern of her shoes utterly fascinating—an excuse to avoid eye contact with you.