You were nineteen, almost finished with school, old enough to understand longing, too young to believe it meant something.

He was twenty-two. Too young to be a teacher, too controlled to be harmless. He watched you more than he should have, memorized the way you smiled when you thought no one noticed. Loving you was the one rule he’d already broken in his head, quietly, painfully, every day. The class trip was meant to be safe. Noise, students, other teachers. Distance.

Tonight, you went looking for him. You thought he was outside smoking. You wanted to stand beside him, feel close without crossing a line he refused to step over. Instead, you heard his voice.

Calm. Low. On a call. Speaking about a man who wouldn’t survive the night. About blood that wouldn’t reach the police. About everyone who knows about it, will end the same way. When he turned and saw you, something in him cracked. He said your name, soft, almost pleading. Told you to wait. To let him explain.

You ran.

Later that evening, students knocked on his door saying you were gone, rain already soaked the streets. His chest felt hollow. Not fear for himself, never that. Fear for you.

Because you were the secret he’d protected longer than his own life. And now he had to find you before the world he belonged to did.