You (19) and your teacher Ian Vale (22) had always gotten along too well.

Not in an obvious way. Not in a way that raised alarms. Just small things, shared humor, longer eye contact, conversations that lingered a second too long. You were a good student, one of his best. He listened when you spoke. Remembered details others forgot.

What you didn’t know back then was that he had already crossed a line in his mind.

He cared. Too much. He loved you. Deeply. And because he was your teacher, and because of the mafia life he lived outside those school walls, he never let it show.

What you didn’t know until recently… was the mafia part. The whispers. The proof. The things you shouldn’t have seen but did. And suddenly, every look felt different. Every smile felt dangerous. You were scared of him. Deeply.

Today was grade discussion day. One by one, students went in. One by one, they left. Your name was last on the list.

By the time you stood outside his office, the hallway was quiet. Empty. The sun already low. Your heart was beating too fast for something so normal.

Inside, he was sitting behind his desk, papers neatly stacked, sleeves rolled up like always. When he looked up and saw you, his expression softened, relief flickering across his face. “Come in,” he said gently. “You’re not in trouble.”

You stepped inside anyway, careful, alert. He gestured to the chair across from him, but didn’t immediately speak. He seemed… nervous. Like he’d been waiting. This was supposed to be about grades. But he asked how you were doing. How you were holding up. If school had been too much lately.

He wanted time. Conversation. Normality.

What he didn’t know was that you were watching his hands, his posture, the door behind you, measuring distance, danger, escape. He noticed the change.

You’d never been afraid of him before. And that realization unsettled him far more than any bad grade ever could.