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Ryland Grace never expected to fall for anyone at Westfield High: he was the science department’s resident grump. Whilst brilliant, witty, and good-looking, he was more comfortable explaining photosynthesis than making small talk in the staff lounge, and, for that reason, Doctor Grace had managed to stay single the entire time he'd worked at the school, despite the occasional advances of single mothers or lonely receptionists (which he found hugely embarrassing and which he could never bring himself to reciprocate).

Yet, every single day for the past two terms, he found himself completely distracted by the English teacher down the hall. You were the kind of teacher students remembered when they left, and he really admired you for it. Your classroom was always cosy and welcoming; students left your room talking about Shakespeare like he was the latest drama; you somehow made even the quietest kids want to participate.

Because you shared the same students, Ryland constantly heard about their "awesome new English teacher" when they came from English to Science. Ryland was initially a little put off that his kids had a new favourite— that was until he'd peeked his head into your classroom under the pretence of borrowing a whiteboard eraser, and had seen who this new teacher was. Immediately, Ryland was smitten. You were a little younger than him — maybe that's why you could engage the kids in a way other teachers could only dream of — but God, you were brilliant. You were funny, and sometimes rude, and a little reserved.

Ryland told himself he only noticed you because your classrooms were nearby. That was a lie, obviously: he shared a hallway with the history department's Mr. Henry Patel, and he'd never gotten tongue-tied with him. Ryland liked the way you laughed when your colleagues teased you in the lounge; the little furrow between your brows when you were grading essays; the fact that you leaned toward jeans and cowboy boots rather than pantsuits.

Ryland was hopelessly, relentlessly trying to impress you, and he hated it.

“Ryland, you’re staring again,” Mr. Patel muttered one morning as they both stood by the coffee machine.

“I’m not staring,” he grumbled, adjusting his glasses. “I’m… observing.”

“Observing her ass in those jeans, maybe.”

Grace nearly choked on his coffee. "Henry! Don't talk about her like that!"

Mr. Patel just rolled his eyes like, knew it, and walked away.

Across the lounge, you were chatting with a couple of students who’d come in early to ask about the homework, listening with that gentle focus that made Ryland’s chest feel too tight. When you caught his eye, you offered a small, bright smile and a little wave.

He lifted his mug in return, trying to look casual and failing miserably when he spilled coffee down his front.

Later that week, fate (or the principal) forced you together. 'Spring Formal Allocations', the announcement read. Serendipitously, Ryland’s name was listed right next to yours under 'planning team'. He peeked over his shoulder, confirming that the staff room was empty, then silently fist-bumped the air.

He found you in your classroom after school, surrounded by stacks of essays and a half-dead plant.

“Heyyy,” he drawled, leaning against your doorframe and immediately slipping. You smiled as he continued, "uh—looks like we’re doomed to plan the dance together.”

You looked at him, surprised but pleased. “Ryland! I was hoping I’d get you. Have you planned a school dance before?”

Ryland's cheeks heated up as he stammered to accept your compliment. “Absolutely not. I’m a molecular biologist... my idea of decorating is labelling petri dishes.”

You laughed, musically, and the sound did horrible things to his pulse. “Well," you continued, "we're officially co-chairs. I promise not to spike your punch.”

Ryland spent the next three weeks in meetings with you, stealing glances while you planned themes and budgets. You were passionate, organised, and endlessly kind— even with the stubborn PTA parents.

The more time he spent with you, the worse his crush became.

One rainy Thursday afternoon, you were both stuck in the staff lounge waiting for the rain to ease up before heading out to the parking lot. You were grading papers at one end of the table while Ryland pretended to read a science journal, whilst actually sneaking glances at you every other line.

“You know,” you said suddenly, not looking up from your essay, “you’re a lot nicer than people think.”

Ryland blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry— that came out wrong. I just mean, you're...sarcastic...and quiet, but you stayed late last week to help Mr. Rivera fix the broken microscope even though it wasn’t your responsibility. And you always leave the good coffee cups for everyone else.” You finally glanced up, a smile on your lips. “It’s sweet.”

His ears went pink as he tried to hide his face . “I have a reputation to maintain,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t go ruining it by telling people I’m…”

Your smile widened. “Your secret’s safe with me, nerd.”

He wanted to tell you then. That he thought about you constantly. That your laugh made the long days better. That he’d never met anyone who made him want to be less closed-off.

Instead, he said, “You should let me buy you coffee sometime. As thanks...for not making me plan the entire formal alone.”

You tilted your head, eyebrows raised. “Like… outside of school?”

“Uh— yeah?" he wasn't sure why it came out like a question.

The silence stretched for a second. Then you smiled— slow, genuine, and a little shy.

“Sounds good.”

He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, a rare, boyish grin breaking across his face.

“Great. It’s a date then.” He paused. “Not a date-date. Unless you want it to be a date-date. I’m good either way. Or both. I’m shutting up now.”

You laughed again, resting your chin on your hand as you looked at him with new warmth.