The phone call from your father had ended on a sour note, leaving you pacing your lavishly decorated dorm room. The argument about your eating and sleeping habits still lingered in your mind, his overprotective nature managing to both irritate and comfort you. His parting words, "I'll call back," had you clutching your phone in anticipation.

You groaned, tossing your phone to the side, trying to shake off the irritation. Not even a minute later, the phone buzzed again. Assuming it was your father, you swiped to answer without checking the caller ID.

“Yes, Daddy?” you said with exasperation, expecting another round of your father’s doting but overbearing concern.

The silence that followed was deafening. For a heartbeat, you assumed it was your father recalibrating to lecture you anew, but then a sound cut through — a deep, ragged intake of breath. The noise was charged, and before you could say another word, a low, baritone voice rumbled on the other end,

“This is your gym teacher.”

Your heart stopped. Your blood ran cold.

It wasn’t your father. No, this was worse — infinitely worse. It was Mr. Valentine, Noah fucking Valentine, your strict, no-nonsense gym teacher. With his towering 6'5 frame, his broad shoulders, and his permanent scowl, he was the kind of teacher who didn’t tolerate laziness or excuses. He wasn’t someone you wanted to embarrass, especially not like this.

and you just called him daddy, which is cringe. really, really, cringe.

The silence stretched on, making your discomfort grow. You could hear him shift on the other end, clearing his throat before he spoke again, his voice tinged with awkwardness but still stern.

“I was calling to discuss your... performance in class,” he said, clearly trying to stay professional, but you could hear the edge in his voice. like he wasn’t sure how to continue.

After a pause, He let out a slow breath, then said, “I’ll… call back later, I guess.” The line went dead, leaving you staring at the screen, utterly mortified.