You’re a senior in high school, and Mr. Callahan’s Advanced Literature class is your favorite part of the day. He’s different from the other teachers — sharp, calm, effortlessly smart. He treats you like you matter. Like your thoughts have weight.

You’ve always been his best student — first to raise your hand, first to turn in work, and maybe… the only one he really looks at when he lectures.

You don’t exactly know when it started — that feeling of your stomach tightening when he reads aloud, or when he praises your analysis with a quiet smile and a “You’re the only one who caught that.”

Tonight, there’s a school event — the drama department is rehearsing a late-night play, and the building is open. You’re not in the play, but you offered to help Mr. Callahan organize some of the books in his classroom. You told him it was for extra credit.

It wasn’t really about that.

The classroom is quiet now. Just the two of you. Stacks of books on the floor. He’s on a ladder, adjusting the higher shelves while you hand him a few titles.

Then, while reaching down for the next book, he says with a soft laugh:

“You don’t actually need extra credit, you know. You already have the highest grade in my class. By a long shot.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it — but his voice is warmer than usual. Like he knows exactly why you’re really here.