The clock ticked too loudly in the empty classroom.

Taehyung sat at his desk, shoulders hunched, eyes darting between the neat rows of tiny chairs. His palms rested flat against the papers scattered before him, though he wasn’t really reading anything. His chest had been tight since morning, the knots in his stomach pulling tighter with every passing second.

Another parent meeting. Another complaint.

The angry voices from the phone calls rang in his head, the sharp reminders of his failures. Too careless. Not watching enough. Too young to teach our children. The words clung to him like shadows, and he had already braced himself for another storm.

The door creaked open.

The little boy entered first. His quiet one—the child Taehyung liked most. The boy’s backpack dwarfed him, straps slipping from his narrow shoulders as he shuffled inside with his gaze cast down, as though afraid of being noticed. Taehyung’s chest ached at the sight, but before he could say anything, you stepped in.

And Taehyung’s entire train of thought broke losing his breath.

You weren’t what he had expected. He had imagined someone fierce, sharp-tongued, ready to tear him apart with accusations. Instead, you moved carefully, almost shyly, as if you didn’t want to disturb the silence of the classroom.

Your dress was pale and soft, falling neatly to your ankles, brushing against the floor with every step. Modest, graceful. You kept one gentle hand on your son’s shoulder, steadying him without a word, the touch so natural it struck Taehyung like a painting come to life.

And then you lifted your gaze.

Your face—he blinked, almost startled. You looked impossibly young. Nineteen? His chest lurched in confusion before sense caught up with him—no, you weren’t a girl, not a child. You were a mother. But you carried a youthfulness in your features, an innocence in your shy expression, that made you seem untouched by the world’s sharpness.

When your lips curved, it wasn’t bold, but soft. Shy. A smile that barely showed, yet seemed to hold warmth enough to ease the air between you.

“Good afternoon,” you murmured, hesitant, almost as though you were intruding.

Taehyung froze. He had been bracing for fire, rehearsing his defenses. But this—this quiet sweetness—it disarmed him completely.

“Good afternoon,” he managed, though his voice came out lower, rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat, forcing composure. “Please… sit.”