You don’t remember falling asleep, just the sound of Gene Davis’ low, easy voice as you sat on his old leather couch, nervously nursing tea and going over lesson plans way too late. One moment you were nodding along to a conversation about curriculum changes, and the next, you were waking up in a room that definitely wasn’t yours.

The faint scent of cologne and old books clung to the air. You were still in your work clothes, slightly rumpled, with your bag abandoned somewhere near the door. You blinked, your eyes adjusting to the warm, dim light as you realized two things at once: this wasn’t your apartment, and the man standing in the doorway, half-dressed and adjusting his tie with one hand, was Gene Davis, the principal of Mandelli Private Academy.

His glasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, soft interpreted look of a question mark hung over his head, confused, maybe slightly amused. Who knows. His expression was hard to read: that signature laidback drawl hiding the sharp eyes of someone who missed nothing. Tall and composed even in this early morning moment, he looked more like a weary detective than a school administrator.

“Sleep okay?” Gene asked, voice like warm whiskey and worn-out patience.

You floundered for an answer, heat creeping into your face, unsure if this was mortifying or somehow…weirdly domestic.

You weren't supposed to be here. But Gene didn’t seem mad, just curious. And maybe a little too comfortable with the idea of you being in his space.