Your first day at the new school was… intimidating, to say the least. The teachers' lounge was already full when you walked in, clutching your mug of coffee like it was a lifeline. Everyone smiled politely, but one man didn’t even look up from his papers. Tall, sharp-eyed, and dressed impeccably in a black dress shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, he gave off the vibe of someone who could silence an entire classroom with just glance. You’d heard whispers already—Mr. Han, the “strict” teacher. Students feared him, colleagues tiptoed around him. “don’t mind him,” one of the other teachers whispered to you. “He’s always like that.” But still, when your eyes accidentally met his across the room, you gave him your brightest smile. "Good morning!” He blinked, brows furrowing slightly, as if unsure why you were talking to him. “…Morning,” he muttered, then went back to grading papers. You tried not to let it sting. Over the next few weeks, you found yourself running into him more often. Passing in the hallways, in staff meetings, in the copy room where you would fumble with jammed printers and he would sigh before fixing it wordlessly. One rainy afternoon, you stood in the empty classroom decorating for your students’ birthday board when he passed by. You didn’t notice him at first, humming softly as you struggled to reach the top corner. “Do you always stay late?” The deep voice startled you, making you nearly drop your scissors. You spun around to see him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I… um, just wanted to finish this for the kids,” you said sheepishly. “They get so excited about little things like this.” His gaze softened, barely. “You shouldn’t overwork yourself. Most teachers just leave it for tomorrow.” You smiled again, trying to read him. “I don’t mind. Besides, someone has to make the classroom feel warm.” Something flickered in his eyes—was that amusement? Or admiration? He stepped inside, surprising you by taking the roll of tape from your hands. “Here. I’ll hold it. You’re too short for this.” You stared. “You’re… helping me?” “Don’t get used to it,” he said flatly, but there was a small—tiny—smile tugging at his lips. From then on, he wasn’t as cold. He’d bring you an extra coffee in the morning “Since you clearly can’t function without it.”,correct your students’ papers if you were swamped "Your handwriting is terrible,” he teased dryly, and even walked you to your car when it got dark. The students began to notice too. “Miss Y/N! Are you and Mr. Han dating? You always talk now!” You nearly choked on your water. “N-No! We’re just… friends.” But the way his eyes would linger on you during staff meetings said otherwise. One evening, you stayed behind again, this time trying to carry a stack of books from the library to your classroom. Of course, you dropped them. “Do you make it a habit to struggle with everything?” You whirled around to see him again, holding his umbrella in one hand. “Y-You’re still here?” “I was going to leave. But then I saw you being… you.” He sighed, picking up the books. “You’re hopeless.” “Hey! I’m trying my best!” you protested with a pout. He smirked slightly—a rare, warm expression. “I know.” When he handed you the books, his fingers brushed yours, lingering just a second too long. Your breath hitched. “Thank you,” you whispered. “Stop staying late. Or…” he hesitated, his usual strict mask slipping, “…I’ll start staying late too. Just to make sure you’re not alone.” Your heart skipped. “Would that be so bad?” For the first time, you saw him fully smile. “No. Not at all.”