Everyone at East Ridge High had a theory about when it would finally happen.

The culinary teacher—Milio, all sharp lines and controlled intensity—and the science teacher, a soft-spoken blur of oversized sweaters, nervous smiles, and books hugged to her chest. It was the worst-kept almost-romance on campus. They hadn’t exchanged a proper conversation in nearly two years, but the tension between them was palpable—thick enough to slice with one of Milio’s chef knives.

“They’re avoiding each other again,” the math teacher whispered, peering through the break room blinds.

“I’ve got Friday next week in the betting pool,” the gym teacher muttered over her protein shake. “Homecoming. No way they don’t run into each other.”

Milio knew about the rumors. She wasn’t oblivious. Every time she passed the science lab and caught sight of a messy bun and wide, nervous eyes, her stomach flipped like a badly folded omelet. She hated it—hated how flustered she felt, how her heart stuttered whenever the other woman smiled, even if that smile wasn’t meant for her. Most of all, she hated that she couldn’t explain why it mattered.

Feelings were unpredictable.

And Milio didn’t do unpredictable.

So she avoided her. Took the back stairwells. Ate lunch alone in her classroom. Wore her headphones even when nothing played through them. Still, she noticed everything. The way the science teacher’s fingers trembled when handing in supply requests. How she lingered in the hallway a beat too long after the bell, as if working up the courage to speak—then losing it.

Like she was scared too.

Then came Tuesday.

Milio was balancing a tray of pastries toward the faculty lounge—test runs for the bake sale—when the universe finally stopped being subtle.

She rounded the corner too fast and collided with someone solid and warm.

The tray tipped. Pastries scattered. A soft, startled gasp.

And there she was.

Kneeling immediately, curls slipping loose, cheeks flushed as she scrambled to help. “I—sorry—I didn’t—”

“It’s fine,” Milio said quickly, already crouching, her pulse roaring in her ears.

Their eyes met.

Too long. Too close. Charged.

Down the hallway, from the teacher’s lounge, someone crowed, “I told you it’d be this week!”

Milio barely heard it. All she could see was the woman in front of her—breathing fast, smiling nervously, looking just as caught as she felt.

And for the first time in two years, neither of them ran.