pairing: coach!steve harrington x teacher!reader
summary: your extremely professional relationship with coach steve may be under investigation by one (1) very observant six-year-old.
warnings: pure fluff, slightly suggestive, steve is just absolutely smitten, secret relationship, children being adorable, mention of marriage, post-s5 (2.3k)
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Little Eli Parker is zooming down the hallway on a Very, Very Important Mission.
Six years old, sandy curls bouncing wildly with every step, he's panting hard through the wide gap between his two front teeth. One of the Velcro straps on his sneaker has come undone, flapping wildly as he skids to a stop just outside your classroom door.
5B
He doesn’t come all the way in. Just peeks around the frame, fingers gripping the edge as he rocks back and forth on his heels.
You pause mid-sentence, lowering the book you’ve been reading aloud. A few students crane their necks to look.
Eli’s bright blue mesh pinnie hangs crooked over his T-shirt, smudged with chalk dust and tiny white handprints—making it very clear which class he’s just sprinted away from. His cheeks are flushed, chest heaving like he’d forgotten the ‘no running in the halls’ rule until the very last second.
“Hey, Eli,” you call out gently. “You okay, honey?”
He sucks in a much-needed breath, eyes wide. “Um… miss you haveta come with me. Coach Steve says you need to!”
You tilt your head. “Coach Steve?”
He nods solemnly. “He said it’s a ‘mer-gency.’”
A ripple of whispers spreads through your fifth-grade classroom.
You blink, already pushing your chair back. “Did he say what kind of emergency?”
Eli shakes his head, serious as anything. “No. He just said we need to hurry.”
Your stomach gives a small, uneasy flip.
Eli isn’t the type to exaggerate. He’s sweet, careful. Reminds everyone when it’s time to line up after recess and always volunteers to erase the board without being asked. He's the sort of kid teachers trust without thinking twice.
If he’s the messenger, it’s because of something important.
“Alright, everyone,” you call to the class. “Keep reading quietly. I’ll be right back.”
A chorus of shuffling follows as you reach for your cardigan.
“Hurry, hurry,” Eli bounces on his heels, voice small but insistent.
Before you can answer, he reaches for your hand. His grip is tiny, warm, a little sticky—surprisingly strong. You find yourself getting dragged by his bouncy, determined steps, weaving past rows of lockers, dodging a cluster of kids heading to recess. He zigzags through the main hallway, past the water fountain, the art room, taking the shortcut through the library until you arrive at the wide, double doors leading into the gym.
The moment you push them open, chaos erupts.
Bright rubber dodgeballs zing through the air. Sneakers squeak across the glossy, lacquered floor. Laughter and triumphant shrieks ricochet off the walls, punctuated by the occasional, “Yes! Got you!” from victorious first graders.
Coach Steve's leaned casually against the far wall, clipboard tucked under one arm, whistle hanging loose around his neck. He’s sipping from a blue ceramic mug that reads World’s Best Teacher in chipped white lettering.
Only five months into the job, yet he’s already something of a legend here at Hawkins Elementary. The younger kids adore him—dodgeball days and ridiculous warm-up games where he pretends to be a shark, stalking the gym with dramatic dun-dun noises until they’re all shrieking with laughter. Older kids trust him in quieter ways, lingering after sex ed to ask questions they’re not brave enough to bring home.
Despite the nerves you remember from his first day, Steve has settled into teaching like it’s been waiting for him all along.
Right now, though, he’s fully in coach mode. Brow furrowed, stance wide, eyes tracking the game like it’s a championship match instead of a bunch of kids still learning how to throw straight.
“Out of bounds! That one doesn’t count.”
“Woah—no head shots, Jacob! C’mon, we talked about that.”
“You okay, Alex? I got you. Here, try it like this. Yeah, there ya go bud!”
Eli, who had been clutching your hand the entire walk across school, suddenly lets go and races toward his favorite teacher.
“Coach Steve! I did it! I got her!”
Steve looks up. Sees you.
And the grin that breaks across his face is so immediate, so fond, it'd be enough to give you both away if anyone was paying the tiniest bit of attention.
“Hey!” he laughs, stepping forward. “Nice work, buddy. Thanks for the help.”
You watch, eyes narrowed in confusion as he ruffles Eli’s curls and slaps a high five against his tiny palm.
Eli puffs up with pride and pivots to sprint back to the game.
“Whoa—hang on, pal.”
Steve drops to his knees, setting the clipboard aside as he reaches for the loose strap on Eli’s shoe. He fastens it with careful, practiced fingers, giving it a quick tug to make sure it’ll hold.
Your stomach melts a little at the sight of him crouched like that: focused, patient, so gentle with this kid who’s staring at him like he hung the moon.
“There we go, champ,” he grins, giving Eli's sneaker a little pat. “Good as new. Now go have fun, alright? Your team missed you.”
Eli nods hard, then rockets back into the game without another word.
Steve straightens and finally turns to you, eyes warm, smile soft—and just a touch guilty.
“Mr. Harrington,” you say, crossing your arms carefully, “what exactly is the emergency you pulled me out of class for?”
His mouth quirks sheepishly, hands slipping into his pockets.
“Well, I just…” He steps closer, dropping his voice. “Haven’t seen you all morning. I missed you.”
You blink.
“You—” A breathy laugh slips out before you can stop it. “You sent poor Eli to fetch me because you missed me?”
He nods like it’s the most logical thing in the world. “Yeah. He's my fastest kid.”
“No, that's not the...” you trail off, turning your head, failing completely to hide your smile.
Steve steps closer, angling the clipboard between you so that, to anyone looking in, it would look like you’re addressing some very concerning issues with the class roster.
Well, except for the part where his eyes are glued to your face.
There’s this soft intensity in his gaze that makes your breath hitch, just by holding it. You find yourself staring back, unable to look away, appreciating the faint creases around his temples, how they deepen with his smile, the plush curve of his bottom lip and the rounded apples of his cheeks as they get pushed upward.
“That’s better,” he murmurs, voice all deep and honey-warm. “Just needed to look at you for a second.”
You shake your head, cheeks warming despite yourself.
There’s a reason you’ve been keeping this thing with Steve a secret.
You both realized, pretty early on, that acting normal in a building full of nosy children and nosier adults was a losing battle. You had to learn to bend with it, catching tiny, fleeting moments in the spaces between, holding onto each one as tightly as you can.
It wasn’t perfect. Mrs. Kline, the school secretary, has definitely noticed the two of you laughing a little too freely by the copier. One of your students will occasionally squint at you during silent reading time, wondering why a tiny scrap of paper left on your table at lunch leaves you grinning for the rest of the day.
Still, you make it work.
A shared coffee in the teachers’ lounge before the morning bell. Standing side-by-side near the parking lot fence as the buses roll in. A granola bar tucked under your desk with a note folded impossibly small.
you look beautiful today ◡̈
He repeats the message to you now, even as you roll your eyes and try to look away.
“Seriously, I mean it," he murmurs, tracing your face with his eyes—the slope of your nose, the curve of your cheek—before lingering, unmistakably, on your mouth. “Want to kiss you so bad right now.”
You snort, nudging the sleeve of his sweatshirt with a finger. It’s soft, heather-gray, the Hawkins Elementary mascot faint and cracked across the chest.
“That’s deeply unprofessional of you, Mr. Harrington.”
He groans under his breath, brow creasing as he tips his head back. “God, I love it when you say it like that. Say it one more time?”
“Jesus—Steve!” you hiss, half-laughing, eyes darting toward the gym floor like the kids might suddenly develop super-hearing over the screech of sneakers and flying dodgeballs.
Instead of stepping back, he leans in closer, lips parted in that familiar half-pout, eyes full of mock agony. “Can’t help it, honey. You’re fucking killing me over here.”
“Language,” you warn him, simply out of pure habit.
He smirks, lips twitching.
From the far end of the gym, a group of kids cheer triumphantly, “Yes! Coach Steve! We won!”
You both jump back like you’ve been caught doing something much worse than grinning at each other like idiots.
“Uh—great! Great job, gang!” Steve calls, clapping his hands. “Let's get all the balls in the cart and then grab some water, yeah? Five-minute break.”
Then he leans back in, brows raised. “See? Total professional. I’m telling you.”
You shake your head. “You’re unbelievable.”
You’re still smiling when he pivots, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one’s paying attention. Satisfied, he turns back to you, brows drawn into a hopeful, pleading slant.
"C'mon," he murmurs, lifting the clipboard up like a partition. "I’ll get another game going. The kids won’t even notice. Just you... me...” He gestures between you, then toward the double doors leading outside. “Five minutes?”
You press your lips together, schooling your expression back into something stern. “Steve Harrington. I am not fucking you behind the school gym.”
"Language!" He gasps, mimicking your tone. “And jeez, who said anything about that? I was just gonna, you know, have a very professional conversation with you… about teaching.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oh, c’mon, bab—"
“Coach Steve?”
Both of your heads snap down at the same time.
Eli stands there, chin tipped up, hands clasped neatly behind his back like he’s been waiting for his turn to speak. He’s rocking gently on his heels, eyes bright with curiosity as he looks between the two of you.
“Heyyy, buddy!” Steve laughs nervously, voice jumping up an octave. “What’s up? You okay?”
Eli nods.
Then, completely matter-of-fact, he asks:
“Coach Steve, when you marry her, can I come?”
Steve chokes on absolutely nothing.
“When—what?”
“When you get married,” Eli repeats patiently, like Steve’s just being a little slow today. “I wanna come.”
Steve squats down so fast he almost drops the clipboard.
“Eli,” he says carefully, “why do you think we’re getting married?”
Eli shrugs, unfazed. “’Cause you’re prac-tis married.”
“Practice… practice married?”
“Yeah. Like my Auntie Jen and her friend Mark at Thanksgiving.”
Steve blinks. “Okay, and what's... why do you think we’re practice married?”
Eli doesn’t hesitate. He points toward the front of the gym, in the general direction of your classroom. “’Cause you always wait for her outside her door.”
Steve opens his mouth. Closes it.
“And you bring her coffee. But you don’t bring us coffee.”
“Well,” Steve murmurs faintly, “that’s ‘cause you’re six.”
Eli shrugs again. “And you talk to her really soft. Like this,” he cups his hand around his mouth to demonstrate, whispering loudly. “Also, you always save her a chair at ass-em-blee.”
Steve rubs a hand down his face, glancing up at you before looking back at Eli. “That’s, uh… very observant of you, buddy.”
Eli isn’t done.
“And you make funny faces at her in the hallway. Oh! And you fixed her pencil sharpener. And, and, there was one time you looked at her, and you didn’t look away for one... two... three...” He glances down at his fingers and starts counting under his breath. “five... six... seven... eigh—”
“Okay!” Steve laughs loudly, holding up his hands. “Okay, buddy, I get it. That’s... that’s a long time.”
Eli nods, clearly pleased with himself. “Auntie Jen and Mark, they used to go everywhere together. And Mark fixed all the stuff around her house. Then later they got married for real.”
He looks between the two of you, satisfied.
“So. I think you’re practice married.”
You bite the inside of your cheek and crouch beside Steve. “Well... I think that’s a pretty solid theory, Eli.”
“Mm-hm, thanks,” he nods confidently. Then he spins back to Steve. “So, when you do the real one, can I come? I’m really good at sitting still. And my mom says when people get married they always eat cake. I love cake.” He spreads his arms wide. “Auntie Jen’s was this big!”
Steve presses his lips together, letting out a short, incredulous snort. “You know what, pal? Sure. Whe—if we get married, you’re more than welcome to come. And we’ll get the biggest cake we can find, okay?”
Eli beams. “Okay!”
He starts to run back to the group, then skids to a stop and turns around.
“Hey, Coach Steve?”
“Yeah?”
“You should ask her nicely,” Eli says, serious as anything. “With flowers. Mark did that.”
And then he’s gone.
Steve stays crouched, staring after him, jaw slack.
“…Did a six-year-old just give me relationship advice?”
“Mm, seems like it.”
He stands slowly, running a hand through his hair, eyes still following Eli as he rejoins the others.
“You think he spotted it before we did?” he asks quietly. “Back when... you know, we were still trying to figure out what we were doing?”
You smile. “Probably way before then.”
Steve's still distracted when you put your hand on his shoulder, quickly checking to see that no one’s watching before pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to his cheek.
He blinks, stunned. “Wha—no, wait, shit—”
He reaches for you a full second too late; you’re already headed for the door.
“Language. Have a good rest of your class, Mr. Harrington.”
Steve watches you go, hand frozen at his cheek.
Across the gym, Eli spots you and waves enthusiastically, completely unaware of just how accurate his little theory was.
The proof?
A small velvet box, tucked away in Steve’s bedside drawer, waiting patiently for the right moment.
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summary - robby comes in to talk to your class about the ER.
a/n - FLUFF as promised! kids say the darndest things. can you tell i don’t interact with them often? also for my moon my man, i wont write the next part until the poll has closed but its not looking too good for our boy robby so i had to at least give him this. another all i want is you soon too!
—
Robby was nervous.
He had held a human heart in his hands, pumped it back to life; he had been thrown in the middle of a mass shooting; he had raced against many a clock to save patients in the nick of time, and not always succeeded.
But for this, he was nervous. For this, he was jumpy.
He had never been inside your school before, always hovering in the foyer, waiting to pick you up, or else trapped in the office talking to Patty, the veteran receptionist. Even these interactions had been after hours, nary a child in sight. But today?
Today was Career Day.
Today, he knew, was your favorite day. More than Valentines, more than Halloween, more than Pi Day, or the spring equinox, though you celebrated those in earnest, too. None of them compared, because on Career Day, any child could be anything they wanted. It was the day dreams were born, you reminded him. And little else was quite as important to feeding a child’s spirit than dreams.
Robby remembered having Career Days at his school, every year. He was always more excited about missing class time than the actual presentations parents gave. Until his friend Tommy’s dad came in, a vascular surgeon who told them all about the hospitals and the people they saved.
“And now look where you are,” you had said.
Yes, here he was. A gruff, stony, steely-eyed ER doctor, shaking at the prospect of facing a group of six and seven year olds.
No parents who had signed up were in medical professions, you had explained to him, just about a week ago. No doctors, no nurses, not even a veterinarian, and you’d asked him to come in. You had absolute faith in him, ecstatic at the prospect of his talking to your class, and had jumped right out of bed well before sunup.
Class started promptly at half past seven, so you always came in early, but on special occasions? You were badging in through the double doors at 5:15. Even Patty wasn’t there yet, just some janitors and cafeteria workers setting up breakfast, to whom you waved cheerfully.
Robby couldn’t help but glance around anxiously as you led him through the dark halls. He hadn’t been in an elementary school since he was an elementary student himself, and he felt strangely too large, too tall, too grown.
It was perhaps due to such a stark comparison with you, practically floating down the linoleum tiles, arms stuffed with only the things he had been unable to carry for you. Your outfit alone emanated welcoming, friendly energy any child would be drawn to. Any adult, either, at that rate.
Your earrings were in the shape of airplanes, your homemade skirt, ruffled edge like piano keys, swayed over your rocket ship shoes and planet socks. Your sweater was stitched with about thirty little characters: a stethoscope, a ballet slipper, a book, each representing a different career. There was almost constantly a hint of a smile dancing around your features.
He examined your door as you jiggled the key in the lock, for even its plain face was colored with your touch. Big block letters cut out of different fabrics spelled out Miss Moony 1B, and were surrounded by what had to be art from every single one of your students. There was a woven basket with gingham lining the inside hanging below your name, and it was stuffed with what at first glance Robby thought were fake flowers. Upon closer inspection, he realized the “petals” on the end of the “stems” were little paint handprints in all sizes and colors.
He couldn’t help his smile as you finally managed to shove your door open.
“That lock jam like that a lot?” he asked, wiggling the handle as he followed you in.
“Yes,” you said, unbothered. “But I always manage it in the end.”
Making a mental note to come back to that some time, he stepped onto the threshold. If he thought your door was wonderful, it was nothing compared to the rest of the room.
Every inch of the walls was covered in art. Whether it be student made, professional, or made educational with charts of the alphabet, times tables, what have you. In the back corner was your collection of class pictures, stuffed with all the kids from every year since you’d started teaching.
In the adjacent corner was the reading nook, with headphones, a bin of “reading buddies,” and of course, books. Books of all kinds, from the ABCs, to sensory, to early chapter books. The shelves were decorated with cut outs of your favorite children’s characters, Fancy Nancy, Eloise, Sister Bear, Francis, the rainbow fish. There were books about health, books about school, books about feelings, books of fairy tales. Next to Arthur was a special spot, with the title “book of the week.” Under it sat a lone book, this week Stand Tall, Molly Lou Melon.
You saw him looking and followed his gaze. Upon realizing the focus of his attention, you lit up.
“Book of the week!” you said, bouncing over to stand with him. “It helps motivate the kids to practice reading. If they like a book, they can nominate it. At the end of the week, we do a blind vote and whichever book wins gets to sit on the special shelf until the next poll.”
He fixed on your elated expression, the one so familiar. It came out without fail, anytime you got to speak about anything that meant something to you. There was no shortage of topics there, but he could never get enough of it.
“What’s Molly Lou Melon?”
“Who is Molly Lou Melon,” you corrected, placing your warm hands on his shoulders and pushing him towards the reading corner. “She is one of the all time greats. I aspire to be her.”
You perched him precariously on one of the tiny button stools and handed him the book. He examined the cover.
“You want me to read it?” he asked.
“Yes,” you said, messing with the bed head he hadn’t managed to get rid of yet.
“But what about setting up?”
“I’ll be doing that,” you said. “You just sit here and wake up a bit, you can help me when you’re done.”
He did as he was told because it was you telling him. Molly Lou Melon reminded him a bit of you. Seemingly naive, an easy target, but strong in the way that you were so self assured. Confident in the ability of yourself and others. Taking whatever life threw at you. He had to admit it was a charming little read.
When he heaved himself off the stool and placed Molly Lou back in her nook, you looked at him expectantly.
“Well?”
“It was great,” he said. “I’m not surprised she got the top spot.”
“Yeah, a couple times,” you said happily. “She was overtaken by Angelina for a while, but she’s back.”
“Angelina?” he asked.
“Ballerina?” you supplied. He shook his head. “Okay, I really could use help now, but after that you’ve got some serious reading to do!”
You put him to work assembling goodie bags for the kids. Each bag got filled with a hand sanitizer, a fun shaped eraser, a notepad, and blank paper doll to be decorated as each kid's dream job.
He hoped at least one kid’s doll would be dressed in scrubs by the end of the day. He glanced around the room as he set out the boxes of colored pencils, crayons, and markers on each group of desks. There were about twenty or twenty five kids in your class, each one of them known well to you. He was meant to be standing up in front of them in a few hours time — what could he say that would captivate first graders for more than a few cursory seconds?
“Hey,” you said softly, putting an arm around his shoulders. “Stop thinking about things that won’t happen.”
“Oh, Honey, I’m not,” he said, wrapping his arm around your waist in response. “I’m thinking about things that definitely will happen.”
You chuckled.
“Alright,” you said, sitting down in one of the miniscule chairs and crossing your legs with impressive ease. “Tell me about these things that definitely will happen.”
You patted the green chair across from you. He looked sceptical.
“I really don’t wanna push my luck with these tiny chairs,” he said.
You waved a hand.
“Oh, no, these things are more sturdy than you’d think,” you said. “Kids are small, but they’re bouncy. They put a lot of strain on them. Now sit.”
He did so, slower and more awkwardly than you. When he was situated, you were looking at him, chin cradled in the palm of your hands, elbows propped up on your bent knee.
“So. What are you thinking?”
He sighed.
“Well, they could boo me,” he started. “Or fall asleep, or leave, or just in general not give two shits about anything I have to say, ask why the hell you’re dating someone like me —”
“Honey, they’re six,” you said matter of factly. “They might ask about dating me, in their own ways, and they could fall asleep, depending on sugar intake, but they will be absolutely enthralled with you, more than anything.”
He matched your posture, resting his elbows on his bent knees and staring as deep into your calming eyes as he could go.
“I suppose you would know,” he said.
“I would,” you said. “I do. You’re great with kids. I know them, and I know you, and you will both have a blast.”
You patted his cheek.
He did have tons of experience with kids, mostly good, and playing with a stethoscope was usually enough to distract a child. But with you next to him? There was no real competition.
In his mind, you were the queen. The beloved ruler of classroom 1B, who knew just what to say, how to make booboos disappear, and how to get a room full of hyperactive six and seven year olds to stay still long enough to teach them about numbers. And he was a gruff, bitchy old man coming to steal you off the throne. How could kids like that?
You were interrupted in the middle of writing the schedule.
“We’ll have you go last,” you said, putting numbers one through seven on the board. In rainbow order. “Since you’ll be the real showstopper. We’ll start off easy with Axel’s mom, she —”
There was a knock on the open door. Not just one, but a whole gaggle of three or four women stood in the doorway, all eyes locked on Robby where he sat leaning against the edge of your desk. He straightened up under their watch, pulling at his scrub top anxiously. He wasn’t working today, but you’d both figured the kids would prefer the full show.
“Hey!” you greeted them with your usual beaming smile and excitement. “You guys ready for Career Day?”
“Not so fast,” said a tall brunette at the front of the pack. “Why don’t you introduce us to your friend here?”
Robby wiped his hands nervously on his pants as you turned to look at him.
“Oh right!” you laughed. “Sorry! This is Michael Robinavitch, my boyfriend. Mike, this is Sandra, Jen, Amanda, and Ashley.”
He raised his hand awkwardly.
“You can call me Robby,” he said. “Nice to meet you guys.”
They chorused back their own greetings, but none of them stopped looking at him so intensely. He glanced your way. Your coworkers descended on him like wolves.
“So you’re the doctor boyfriend?” said Amanda, raking over him with her eyes.
“Taller than I thought he’d be,” said Sandra.
“Cuter, too,” said Ashley. “She told us you were cute, but…”
“But what?” he dared ask.
They all laughed.
“Well, you know our little do-gooder,” said Jen, winking. “It’s what’s on the inside, for her. She’s brought back some real charity cases before. Remember Pete?”
They let out a collective groan. You put your hands on your hips, but you didn’t look very upset.
“What was wrong with Pete?”
“Oh, sweetie,” said Jen, patting your arm. “You have such a good heart.”
“Thank you,” you said dully.
Your friends were getting closer, circling him, taking in every inch. He shot you a look over the vulture's heads, and you stepped in with a small smile.
“Okay, well we’ve got lots to do,” you said loudly, checking your watch. “Kids’ll start getting here in twenty minutes. I’ll catch up with you guys at lunch!”
He got several more winks as you corralled them out the door, and he was pretty sure he heard one of them mutter something about his ass as they rounded the corner. He had to take deep breaths, but you looked utterly unbothered as you picked your whiteboard markers back up.
“Sorry about them,” you said absently, scribbling away. “They’re very bored in their marriages. Are you upset with them?”
“Upset? No,” he said absently, coming up to stand behind you and watch your hand flit around the board, somehow leaving perfect print behind. “Overwhelmed? A little.”
You laughed as he laid his hands just above your navel, his chin on your shoulder.
“Yes, they can be a lot,” you said. “But they’re very nice and hardworking people. I’d trust my kids with them.”
Robby leaned some more heavy weight against you, letting nothing but the squeaking of your marker and your slow breaths intermingling with his fill the room. Soon enough, though, there was a slight rumble, and a minute later the familiar pitter-patter of rain against the windows started up.
You sighed dreamily, and Robby couldn’t tell if you were happy or annoyed. Then he got his answer.
“I love the rain,” you said, abandoning the board for the window and dragging him with you. “Don’t you love the rain?”
“If I’m not in it? Love it,” he said, pulling you closer as they peered out.
“April showers bring May flowers,” you reminded him.
“Are you all done setting up?”
“Not quite,” you said. “But let’s just watch the rain for a second.”
The sky was dark over the playground, so dark windows across from it started lighting up. The rain was so heavy it was hard to see through, the people running inside were mere shapes against the downpour. You hummed, another streak of lightning cracking across the sky.
Somewhere, Robby’s eyes turned from the windows to you. You looked so peaceful. So serene. Until —
“Miss Moony, who’s that?”
Robby jumped a mile away from you, locking his hands behind his back before he even saw who the owner of the big voice was.
There was a young boy standing at the door, hair plastered to his head, boots too big and coat dripping, and he was pointing and staring at Robby with his little mouth open. Robby could feel himself flushing already. You just smiled.
“Good morning Diego!” you said, going over to greet him. “This is my friend Dr. Robby! Remember I told you he would be coming in to visit?”
“Oh,” said Diego, as you helped him out of his rain gear. “But why was holding on to you like that? Were you wrestling?”
Robby was approaching burgundy. You tried to stifle a laugh. Whether at Diego’s question or Robby’s response, he didn’t know, because he was looking pointedly at the cat clock above the door.
“No, we were just hugging,” you said. “Like how you hug your friends.”
“I don’t hug them like that,” said Diego, eyes still locked on Robby.
“Oh, how do you hug them?” you asked as he put his stuff in his cubby. “Can you show me?”
Diego finally seemed to forget about Robby as he flung himself at you, and explained his technique. It gave Robby time to cool his face back to normal temperature. It was hard, what with the way his heart sped up just looking at you interact with your students. Perhaps this was all a big mistake for very different reasons.
Soon, more children were arriving. Some alone, some with older siblings, some with parents that said a quick hi before disappearing. Sensing his hesitation, you sent Robby to get grown-up chairs from the auditorium, and he bided his time setting them up near the front of the room.
Now that he was in the background and you were paying all your attention to them, the kids didn’t pay him any mind. He didn’t get a second glance as the room filled up. He did hear part of Diego’s conversation with a small girl that threatened to burn his face once again.
“See that guy, Luna?”
“Yeah?”
“Thats Dr. Robby. Miss Moony was hugging him.”
“Like a best friend hug or a married hug?”
“I don’t know. It looked married to me.”
Eventually, the parents that weren’t staying left, the parents that were sat up front with Robby, and all the little kids were in the seats that had their nametags. The goodie bags were hidden safely under your desk; you knew that giving them something to play with before the presentations would only be counterproductive.
First up was Axel’s mom, who was a train operator for the T. The kids had a lot of fun asking all about trains, and you pulled up a big map of all the lines.
Next was Ellie’s dad, a construction worker who had worked on building the playground outside their window back before they were born. He earned the job title “monkey bar builder” officially.
After him, Julian’s mom, who was a public defender. “Bad guy getter.”
Grayson’s mom, a firefighter. Robby started to question whether he would really be a show stopper after she brought in a real dalmatian for the kids to pet. It did seem a little harder for Jayden’s dad to get their attention back with CEO of an insurance company after that — they had to bring the dog out into the hall.
Then they had Nolan’s dad, a publisher, and Layla’s mom, a data analyst. Then, before he knew it, you were introducing him.
“Ok, remember I told you all about my friend Dr. Robby? Yeah? Well, he was kind enough to use his time off to come in and talk to you,” you said excitedly. “He’s going to tell you all about what he does working at the hospital!”
He swallowed. Twenty pairs of little eyes swiveled towards him, and he had to admit, he froze a little. Maybe it was a mistake to go last. Their energy was running out, he could see fidgeting and restless movements, and literally why would they give a shit about him? What if Diego raised his hand and asked why you guys “married hugged” if you weren’t really married?
He glanced at you, shifting in his seat, and you were smiling at him. You had moved to sit on a little stool next to some students at their desks for the full picture. He tried to mimic your easy grin.
“So,” he started, clapping his hands. “You guys remember going to see your doctors? They look at you, do some tests, give you shots?”
He got nods and yeahs from the crowd.
“Well, I’m not that kind of doctor,” he said. “I don’t do those things in an office, I do them in an Emergency Room in a hospital. That means that if someone needs help really fast, they come in to see me whenever they want. Make sense?”
More nods. A familiar girl with curly pigtails timidly raised her hand, and he smiled at her. She took a deep breath.
“You helped me when I got a shot with my epin-pen!” she squeaked, smiling shyly.
“That’s right, Layla,” he said, and she beamed. “You didn’t have time to call and make an appointment, we needed to make sure you were okay very very quickly, so you came in an ambulance, right?”
She nodded, covering her smile with her hands.
“What are some other reasons someone might need to go to the doctor?” he asked the class. “Anyone have any ideas?”
“SICK!” bellowed a red haired boy in the back, and Robby had to suppress a chuckle.
“That’s right, that’s a good one,” he nodded. “There are all kinds of sicknesses. Usually common colds, and your body can heal on its own. But sometimes, we need medicine to help us heal. Does anyone know what causes sickness?”
Several hands shot into the air, and he looked to you to call on someone.
“Jada,” you said, pointing at a girl with no front teeth.
“Germs!” she said. “Germs get in us when we don’t wash our hands, and we get sick!”
“Very good job!” said Robby. “Yes, germs are little things, living things, that are too small for us to see, and they can get everywhere. Some even live inside us, because not all germs are bad. You just don’t want outside germs getting in. But our body will fight back against these germs, with something called an immune system. The fight between us and the germs is what makes us sick.”
He reached into his bag and pulled out a thermometer, one of the hand held hospital ones with a wire and plastic covers. He held it up.
“Do you know what this is?” They shook their heads. “This is a thermometer. It measures your temperature. This one is probably different then the ones you have at home because it comes from a hospital, and we have to see lots of different patients there.”
He showed them how to take out the actual thermometer, apply a cover, and then use it.
“Does anyone want to help me take their temperature?” he asked.
Immediately, every single hand in the room, even meek little Layla’s, shot up and danced in the air. Some kids even stood straight up out of their chairs. He again looked at you, unsure of how to proceed. You looked at the clock, then at the kids, and just shrugged.
“Everybody form a line! No pushing!”
It wasn’t exactly easy, wrangling all twenty-five of them. It was a good thing he had thought to restock the covers or he’d have had to turn half the class away. As he checked them, he explained to them why the covers were necessary. Then, he pulled out his penlight, stethoscope, and reflex hammer, and each child was getting a full workup in the front of class 1B.
Eventually, parents started parting, late for work, but their attempts at farewells were all but ignored by their children. Once each kid was checked up, they hovered near his chair, asking questions and pulling on his hoodie strings.
“Do you do surgeries?”
“Can you give cats medicine?”
“Do you live at the hospital?”
“How do you spell medicine?”
“Look at my scab! Is my immute system healing it right?”
By the time the kids were sent off to lunch, his cheeks were sore from smiling ear to ear. They all waved at him, smiled back, and shouted “Bye Mr. Dr. Robby!” at the top of their lungs. When he turned to look at you, you were smiling almost as hard as he was, eyes dazed and wide, like the ones that gave you your name.
“What?” he asked.
You didn’t answer, just got up from your seat, grabbed his face, and started peppering it with kisses. It forced a surprised laugh from deep in his chest, and he pulled you down onto his lap.
“You — are so — amazing!” you said between kisses. “It happened just like I imagined. Now they’re all gonna become doctors!”
“Well, I don’t know about all of them,” he said, face staining pink, not from your lip gloss. “But I have a feeling about Layla.”
“She’s a smart cookie,” you said, leaning your head atop his. “Whatever she does, she’s gonna be great. All those kids are.”
“It’s because they have you, you know,” he said, gazing up at you with reverence.
You looked down at him, eyes sparkly.
“Thank you,” you said, smoothing his beard. “I need to bring you back next year. All the years. You’ll come, won’t you?”
“So I’ll be around for the rest of your years?” he asked, watching you closely.
You leaned back to cock your head, confused. Your airplanes swung around with you.
“What do you mean?” you asked. “Where else would you be?”
Careful, Robinavitch, don’t cry in a first grade classroom.
“Absolutely nowhere,” he said.
And when you brought him a big thank you card signed with the name of every kid in the class, so what if he cried? And what did it matter if it became the first framed art on his blank walls? In his opinion, there was no finer masterpiece anywhere.
Summary:Years ago, after a rough breakup Eddie decided to focus on his daughter and his career as a rock star. Luna is now starting first grade. But when her teacher is a young beautiful woman wearing a Corroded Coffin t-shirt, he starts to rethink his single life.
Content warnings: Swearing
Word count: 1,5k
Note: Hey!!! Thank you all so much for all the love on part 1! It means so much to me that so many people enjoy this story as much as I do! I want to again thank the amazing @cabin-fever-is-a-vibe for helping me edit and just being amazing!! I hope you all enjoy!
/Masterlist/ Part 1/ Part 3
Eddie spend the rest of his day in his at home studio working on a new album. A toothpick was gnashed between his teeth when his fingers itched for the cigarettes in his desk.
All of the lyrics he wrote down felt more emotional. They had a softer touch than his usual work. Each lick of his guitar furled out a new melody that was that gentler when he mulled it over.
He kept one eye on the clock, making sure he would be at the school gate. He wouldn't want to make his sweet princess wait. God no, never. Never again.
When it was 30 minutes till the end of the school day he set the guitar down, rose from his chair and grabbed his keys with a heavy sigh.
During the drive he couldn't stop imagining you. God damn it... He hated himself for the fact that you were occupying his mind like this. His priority was his daughter. Her first, always! You were her teacher- he shouldn’t be thinking about you like this.
Whilst waiting outside the school with the other parents, his mind began to wander again. The moms were gossiping already. He felt their eyes on his back. Not surprising. He didn’t exactly blend in with the polo shirts and khakis.
''She's such a sweet girl. A shame really. Must have gotten it from her mother. Really, what a state.'
He sucked in a fortifying breath before removing his toothpick and staring at the snotty priss talking shit. Stared and waited for her to realize she wasn’t as subtle as she fucking thought. Yeah, Sandra. You.
When she realized she was being stared at her mouth instantly shut close, slowly looking away. Eddie smirked. Still got it. Giving Sandra one more glance and cocky grin, he ambled away to stand at the other side of the school ground.
He tried to always block out others thoughts about him, especially when it came him being a dad. He wanted the best for his girl. He wanted to be the best for Luna.
You would think moving to a different side of the school grounds would have helped, but somehow it just got worse.
'What I would do to him...' someone purred.
He suddenly felt too hot.
Luckily before he could go crazy, the school bell rang and kids started to pour out the doors.
Soon he spotted Luna running out with her little bunny backpack bouncing on her back. A tiny guitar key chain that suspiciously looked like his swung from one ear. A huge smile spread across her face when she found him. Her curls bounced with every step she took.
"Daddy!!" She ran up to him and jumped into his arms.
Eddie’s sour mood melted. It was the greatest high he'd ever felt, to know someone loved him so much. After he gave her a kiss on the forehead they started to walk to the car, Luna holding his hand tightly.
"So how was it, your first day in this class?" He asked as soon as they started to drive, looking over to Luna to see her smiling brightly.
"Amazing! Our teacher is so kind.” She babbled ‘She’s the best! She let me draw all I wanted-' Her expression dropped suddenly and she leaned in to add earnestly, 'after I did my work.'
He nodded along seriously, pursing his lips to hide his smirk.
"We even had drawing games! The other kids are nice too. I made so many friends!" She spoke with such excitement in her voice that Eddie couldn’t wrestle back his smile anymore. It felt so wide it almost hurt. This is such a nice switch-up from the old conformist.
"That's great sweetheart." He reached over and gave her hair a quick ruffle before focusing his attention back on the road.
The evening was easy. They ate dinner, Luna shot upstairs and Eddie was left alone to battle the dirty dishes.
He scanned the kitchen looking at all the drawings he had hung up on the fridge. His little artist. The fridge had been filled to the brim a long time ago so he switched them to the hallway walls. Each drawing had a unique frame that Luna picked out herself. It was a little personal museum of his daughter’s growth. Her life decorated the walls.
Whilst his hands busied themselves with the dishes, his ears listened carefully. The fizz if the shower whispered down the stairs. His eye flicked to the clock. Whilst playing mermaids was fun, she couldn't live in the shower and he'd never shaken the habit to hoard hot water from his younger years.
After 10 minutes the shower turned off. He smiled down at his half-scrubbed bowl. Good girl.
A few minutes later a loud thud hit the floor above his head.
He frowned and shook his hands off.
“Sweetheart...?”
She would have shouted for help if something was wrong... right? She always looked so worried if he helped without asking nowadays. Sometimes he had to remind himself to let his little girl grow.
He turned his head to catch a glimpse of the newest drawing he added to the fridge. The last available spot held by fridge magnets from past tours. It was a drawing of Luna and him. She had drawn herself holding a guitar like the one he had, with himself drawn next to her holding one as well. Metal as hell for a 6-year-old.
A small hand pulled on his sleeve.
He flinched.
Luna stood there with a cheeky smile on her face, her hair was still damp from the shower, wearing her fluffy dragon pyjamas with the matching dragon slippers.
He raised a brow. When did she become such a sneaky rogue?
"Daddy, I want a story."
Scooping her up onto his hip and with a silly smile on his face, he nodded. “Sure, let's go get you nice and tucked into bed."
Luna's room was a pale orchid palace. Or at least, large enough to make her child sized furniture appear shrunken for the fairies. He may have gone a bit overboard in hindsight, but when he felt the love, he just had to go wild.
And how else was she going to fit all of her plushies if her bed wasn't spacious? The huge dragon plushie Eddie got her for her 5th birthday took up halve of the bed!
Luna didn't mind though. She would tuck herself against it or lay on it.
The rest of the room was filled with various toys, some clothes Eddie still needs to collect and wash, pencils, scattered pieces of paper and a bookshelf filled with fantasy books. Her walls... well they collected more and more drawings over the years as well. If she didn't like her own drawings on the walls in a couple years, he could just repaint them no problem.
After tucking her in and making sure she was comfortable he walked to the bookshelf, and flicked through the books like he would a vinal collection.
"So, my elven princess, what will it be tonight?"
"The Hobbit!" Luna jumped up and down with way too much energy for someone who is suppose to be read to sleep. But would he say no to her request? Of course not. If she wants to be read The Hobbit to sleep, he will do that.
He started to read her to 'sleep', or at least that was his initial intention, but it got carried away.
He took the toy sword peaking from beneath Luna's bed and used the book as a shield. Swinging the sword around, he told the story by heart and declared the dragon plushie, Mr Puffles, to be the Goblin King.
Luna's eyes bugged wide.
'No!'
'Yes!' he cried, holding her back before stabbing the dragon in its squishy belly.
He really went all out during story time. His pride as a Dungeon Master demanded it so. Because, yes, even though he barely had time to play anymore, he tried to still cram in a few sessions of DnD with his old buddies.
After about 25 minutes of reading he started to notice Luna rub her eyes and yawn almost every couple minutes. Only then did he start to notice the ache in his arms and the dull heavy warmth of exhaustion under his eyes.
He rested the book on the bedside table carefully, kissed her forehead, and told her it was time to go sleep.
"I love you princess. Sweet dreams."
With one last sleepy nod, he walked to the door and flicked off the lights.
“You... too...”
It was quiet; a drop of a feather, but unmistakable. When did he become so soft...?
The soft click of the door closed behind him. Now being stood there outside her room, resting his head against the wood. His heart ached with how full it felt, pressing against his ribcage as if trying to crawl back into the hands of his own kid.
The house was too barren with no one else to fill it. He was alone again. Just him and his thoughts.
HOPE YOU ENJOYED IT!! Already working on part 3 hihi!!
( part 3 is done!)
Let me know in the comments if you want to be added to the taglist for my Eddie fics!
pairing: dennis whitaker (the pitt) with gender neutral, roommate and teacher!reader.
0.8k / sfw. some cutesy roommate hcs! trinity/reader/dennis trio will always be famous. + masterlist.
✦ “oh— also, i do have a roommate. but there’s room for three, don’t worry.” that’s what trinity said as he first stepped foot into her (now their) apartment. inside was cozy, the small foyer giving way to a tight kitchen and modest living room area. a hall split the entire apartment down the middle: to the left was trinity’s room and a storage closet and to the right was her roommate’s room and the bathroom. dennis would be sleeping on the couch, and as he sat down on it, slowly settling along the cushions with his typical look of quiet anxiousness, he figured that sleeping there wouldn’t be too bad.
✦ it’s not until the next morning that he meets you, though throughout the evening he sees evidence of you living there. little crafts all about the apartment, a few framed pictures of classes of kids— your school pictures, maybe?— cute stickers along the refrigerator that whitaker knows trinity would never buy. pencils, mechanical and wooden, neatly set into a few baggies on the living room table.
✦ you’re up early, around 5:45 or so, softly opening the door to your room and walking straight across into the bathroom. dennis wakes up about 15 minutes before you, however for his 7 am shift at work; trinity wakes up 15 minutes later than you. breakfast is cooked by you (”we take turns,” santos explained) and eaten altogether, allowing time for introductions.
“so, this is dennis. dennis, this is my roommate,” trinity says between mouthfuls, gesturing between the two of you.
whitaker instinctively offers his hand for you to shake. “nice to meet you.”
“nice to meet you, too.” you take his hand and give it a gentle shake, then let go. “trinity tells me you’re prone to messes. what was it you said?” you turn to her, eyebrows furrowed. “something about liquid spills?”
she chuckles. “he’s always getting covered in liquids. changes his scrubs like, every two hours, it feels like.”
his cheeks flush in slight embarrassment, but he soldiers through, nodding a little. “yeah, i guess. it’s not that bad.”
“well, just make sure to clean up after yourself. i have enough on my plate already cleaning up after my kids,” you reply, flashing a friendly smile.
“you have kids?” he asks immediately, which only makes santos laugh— you lean away from her, which leaves dennis as her unfortunate victim for laugh-punching. at least she doesn’t hit as hard as his brothers did when they laughed.
“no, dumbass,” trinity starts, “didn’t you see the pictures?”
“i don’t have kids, not like that. i just meant my class. i’m a teacher, i teach third grade at the intermediate school,” you explain, “it’s why i’m up so early. school starts at… 8:15. i like to be there an hour early, which is why i’m awake with you guys.”
“oh,” he murmurs, “you’re a teacher. that’s cool.”
✦ trinity goes on to describe the moment as “an awkward start to a beautiful friendship” which… wasn’t entirely inaccurate. as time goes on, you and dennis grow just as close as you and santos are, the three of you forming a nice little trio within your apartment. he helps you with little crafts for your classroom, sometimes even coming in early with you on his off days to help you put up new seasonal decor. trinity takes to cooking breakfast more often than not, though whitaker would attribute that to the fact that she’s fucking dr. garcia more often than not. still, things are fine here. far better than where he used stay, at least.
✦ the feelings start off small. he doesn’t think too hard about why it feels so good to listen to you talk enthusiastically about a field trip you and your class went on. nor does he ponder why he’s so affected by the sight of you, crestfallen at the fact that one of your kids just couldn’t seem to stay out of trouble. dennis does start to notice, however, how much he treasures those fifteen minutes between 5:45 and 6:00 where you’re awake and he’s awake but trinity’s not; he loves trinity to death, truly, but he loves you, too, in a way that’s more than solidarity or gratitude.
✦ “your students are lucky to have you,” he murmurs one night, watching as you sit and grade their vocabulary tests. shifting, he bites his lip before expanding on his thought, “i just mean… you’re an understanding grader.”
you let out a quiet hum. “it’s a mixed class, so i try to be gentle. of course, when they’re wrong, they’re wrong… but a smile face for effort or a flower or ‘great work’ doesn’t hurt anyone. keeps them motivated, you know?”
“right,” he nods, “i get that.” you’re sweet. the thought hits whitaker immediately and then lingers, his eyes softening as he watches you grade some more. “you’re a good teacher.”
“you’ve never seen me teach, dennis,” you point out, pen still gliding along the loose-leaf paper before you.
he reaches back, rubbing his neck some, “i know, but… i see what you do outside of the classroom. that’s how i know.”
you’re quiet for a moment before replying, your lips curving into a small smile. “thank you.”
teacher!reader but you’re one of those kitschy, fantastical teachers that kids remember when they’re older. the type of teacher to say silly things as if they make complete sense, to make you laugh even when you’re mad or sad. loveee that vibe.
tagging! @nozhdyved, @dynamitehacke, @voidsuites, @girlmadeofavocados, @herdarlin, @bye-bye-gremlings ✩ click here to be added!
First of all, sorry if something I write isn’t clear, I’m using a translator!
Sooo imagine Simon with a girlfriend or a dater who is a scout leader (head of the scouts, like a teacher) and she takes him to one of the scout meetings so the kids can see a real British soldier, and Simon is a bit surprised to see how these kids, around 10 years old, are more organized and follow orders better than the soldiers under his command, who are usually over 20.
I see it as something really sweet.
Simon x scout/teacher reader (I imagine reader works for like a summer program)
You've been with Simon for years now, you're even engaged, but his stories never seem to stop surprising you. The 141 has been working with a group of recruits for weeks now, and they’re supposed to be the best of the best, they should feel lucky to train under the 141. Yet almost every time Simon comes home he is explaining to you how they barley listen and often fuck stuff up. But every time you come home you only have good stories, and honestly Simon thinks you're just downplaying it.
Simon just came home, later than usual and already changed out of uniform, all odd for him. Simon liked routine, get off at the same time, come home, shower, and then spend time with you. As soon as he walked in he wrapped you in a hug, after a moment he said “recruits broke some stuff outside and now the whole basses water system is messed up. My clothes were soaked. Price is down right done with them” you smiled at him, you sympathized but it was still a little funny “why don't you come with me tomorrow, maybe you could get learn some tips before completely giving up” you said while grabbing Simon's duffle bag, Simon scoffed "you're saying a group of kids, act better than my trained soldiers" you smirked “they listen, and that's the difference” you said before walking away.
Simon thought about it, it wouldn't hurt, and even though his recruits didn't listen often, they had to be better than literal children, right? Simon texted the 141 group chat letting them know he was taking tomorrow off and why, the sergeants were immediately placing bets on which group would act better, and though Price was still pissed from earlier even he placed his bet.
It was Simon's first time in your little classroom in a few years, when you first got the position he helped you set up the room but after that he didn't have much reason to come over. The first thing he noticed is how clean the room was, especially since it was a kids room. Simon stayed sitting at your desk while the kids came in, they all eyed him curiously but none of them approached, they just sat and played. Once all of your students were in you moved to the front of the class, you rang a little bell on your desk and suddenly all of them were looking at you
“I’m sure you’ve all noticed the man in the corner, that’s Simon” one of the students raised their hand and asked “is he your husband” you smiled, how did they know? “yes, and he is also a soldier in the military, a lieutenant” that got him even more stares combined with some ooh and ahs. You turned to Simon “and Mister Lieutenant, what would you say is the most important thing in the military” you hadn't instructed Simon on what to say, you just already knew his answer "communicating and workin’ together” which had you students smiling proud of themselves, you guys had been working on those skills “so today we’re gonna show him how good we are at doing that.”
Simon spent the first part of the morning just answering their question, they were surprising calm and respectful, always raising their hand to ask questions, and they asked genuine questions about the military, in fact he had to think about his answers to make the appropriate for children, they didn't need to know the horrors of the world yet. Then you took them outside, you had them set up in stations doing different things, all working on life skills, Simon went around, occasionally stopping to help one of the groups. By the time lunch rolled around they had all finished and cleaned up.
Lunch was by far the loudest part of the day, but still Simon was able to sit next to you and talk to you without having to yell, on base sometimes he has to leave his office to tell them to shut up cause he cant even think. After lunch, you went back outside with the kids, just letting them run around and have fun. You leaned over to Simon “so who listens better” Simon kept his lips shut and just looked away. After recess you went back inside, some kids playing, others coloring, the kids kept coming up to Simon and dragging him away to show him what they had made, and Simon would leave with multiple drawings of him.
Once all of the kids had gotten picked up you bumped Simon on the side “learn any tips Si?” he just rolled his eyes “doesn’t make any since luv, no clue how you do it” you shrugged, still smiling “I don't know, maybe I just need to come over, I’m sure I’ll have your soldiers listening in no time” Simon out right laughed at your boldness “okay luv, whatever you say” he says that, but it might not be the worst idea.
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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤDATING A PROFESSOR (MATT'S VERSION) * MATT STURNIOLO * BLURB
SUMMARY :: Matt thought dating a teacher would be hot. He didn't expect to need Google to understand when she's flirting.
FEATURING Matt Sturniolo x teacher!reader REQUESTED? no.
WARNINGS :: age gap (mentioned).
AUTHOR'S NOTE :: that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.
A/N² :: i was studying calculus yesterday night, and had this idea after remembering how Matt mentioned having a crush on a teacher once 😭🙏🏻.
Monday morning is chaos.
Y/N wakes up late. Not just a little late, no, late enough that her brain does the fast math of everything she's already behind on. Mr. Biles is gonna have her head-
She beats herself up for agreeing to go to that hangout with the triplets at Gabi's and Josh's house the day before. She knew they would stay there until early morning, and she agreed even though she had to teach a damn class of Calculus II at 7 AM sharp.
Her eyes glance quickly toward the small clock above the bedside table while she throws on a random grey sweater - she was sure that she could smell Matt's cologne in it, but oh well. First lecture is in less than thirty minutes. Great.
Books go into the bag. Calculator. Notebook full of writing. Laptop. Half the physics department, probably-
She rushes out of the bedroom with her too-damn-heavy bag thrown over her shoulder, silently thanking Matt for choosing the room next to the kitchen all those years ago.
Matt is by the counter making himself some cereal when she rushes past, opening the fridge door and grabbing the first thing she sees. A cold Monster. Huh, good enough.
She presses a quick kiss to his half opened chapped lips on the way out.
"Bye- late." She says, already halfway to the door, managing to rush downstairs without stumbling over her own feet.
Matt just stands there with the metallic spoon in his hand.
"'Morning to you too."
He takes a sip.
His girlfriend teaches advanced engineering mathematics at a university that terrifies him. I mean, he did fail algebra once.
About an hour later his phone buzzes, Y/N's contact name popping up on his lock screen above a picture of both of them when they went to Milan by themselves last summer break. His eyebrows furrow a bit as he checks the time. It's probably the break between her first and second class.
He opens the notification and his eyebrows furrow even more - if that's even possible.
x^2 + (y - cbrt(x^2))^2 = 1
Matt stares at it.
"Oh absolutely not." He says to nobody.
He turns the phone sideways like that will help. It does not help.
She does this sometimes. Sends numbers like they're normal communication.
Matt squints.
"Babe, what am I supposed to do with this?"
For a second he considers pretending he understands, but that feels dangerous. He never knows what goes on inside her crazy brain. So he opens Google.
He types the entire cursed equation in before clicking enter.
A whole bunch of graphics pops up, and Matt leans closer, squinting at them.
"What the-?"
They are all hearts.
Y/N texted him an equation whose graph is a heart.
His face does that slow silly smile thing before he can stop it.
"You're such a nerd." He mutters, impressed.
His girlfriend is possibly the biggest academic weapon alive with all her knowledge of years and years of studying and teaching like an insane woman, and she just flirted with him using calculus.
Can we have more of teacher reader and single dad rafe? Like maybe he catches another one of the students fathers trying to flirt with her during the teacher conference.
he would soooo be dramatic about it in his own special rafe way. it was just a parent-teacher conference, there was nothing wrong with her talking to the other guy. but what was wrong was how he was looking her up and down, slipping in flirtatious comments while she was trying to talk about his daughters grades.
rafe watched from the waiting area she set up in her classroom, knee bouncing with barely contained rage. his son was none the wiser — preoccupied with a coloring page she printed out for all the waiting students. she was sweet like that. she didn’t deserve the vulgarity of that douchebag’s stare.
but he knows how she wants to keep their relationship out of her work for now. and he understands that and respects that. so he goes through the motions of a casual conference. listening and casting looks over at his son when she compliments his reading quiz scores. her kitten heel clad foot bumps rafe’s shin, a small touch, but one that soothes some of the irritation simmering in him.
“i don’t know what you’re doing with him at home, mr. cameron, but i’m very pleased with his improvement.”
“well, uh— we’ve been going over his vocab list, doin’ what you suggested. it’s all thanks to you.”
her sweet smile and nervous twiddle of her pen makes a smirk twitch at his lips. she walks them to the door since they’re her last conference, causal small talk turning into their own specific flow. his sons pads down the hallway to the restroom, rafe promising to wait for him.
she leans against the door frame, blinking up at him and playing with the charm on her necklace (that he got her). she gives him a sweet little grin when he mentions the parent who was giving her ‘extra attention’.
“i was fine, rafe…”
“i really, really, don’t give a shit, sweetheart. he’s lucky kids were around.”
“you’re ridicul—“
he pulls her in by her belt loop, pressing a soft kiss to her chapstick covered lips. her hand finds its way to his chest, fingers dancing along the buttons of his plaid shirt. just wishing they were at his house and that she could pull them open. her lips part gently under his, a tease of his tongue against hers before it’s over all too soon.
they pull back slowly, breathless smiles on both their lips. they want to linger there together, want to stay in their own little bubble. if only. he leaves her with a squeeze of his hand, whispering a command hotly in her ear of promises to come:
“you tell me if he does that shit again, a’ight? know i’ll take care you…”
I'm finally reading the book and when he calls the asrtophage brats and it unlocked my third eye for a second. If you're still taking requests I'd appreciate a brat tamer Grace. I feel Grace is really dense guy so he may not get feel the flirty undertones of most things but when it clicks for him. Whoomp, there it is. That is all!! Thank you so much if you are able to and no worries if you can't!
So I enjoyed this ask a whole lot, BratTamer!Anon, I'd love to know what you think when you get to read this...
Make Me (Part 1 of 2)
Ryland Grace/Reader | Teacher!Ryland x Teacher!Reader | Explicit, MDNI | ~16k words
Tags: brat taming, soft dom ryland grace, oblivious ryland grace, slow burn, mutual pining, eight months of sexual tension, teachers au, pre-hail mary, co-workers to lovers, banter, humor, praise kink, dirty talk, edging, oral sex, biting, marking, the wallet condom is the entire fic, brenda was in the front row
Ryland Grace is a middle school science teacher who has, by your reasonable estimate, never once clocked a flirtation in his entire life. He explains photosynthesis by analogy. He bikes to school. He wears science pun t-shirts.
You have been winding him up for eight months. You have been getting away with everything.
Then he figures it out.
[ cross posted on Ao3 ] [ part 2 here ] [ fic masterlist here ]
The staff room coffee is bad in a specific way. Not weak. Not burned. Something stranger than either, like it's been brewed twice on purpose, possibly as a punishment. You pour yourself a cup anyway because the alternative is going back to your classroom, and the alternative to that is admitting you came in here to find him.
He's at the round table by the window, grading. There's a red pen in his hand and another one tucked behind his ear, which he has forgotten about. His hair is doing the thing it does in the afternoons, which is whatever it wants. The t-shirt today says I LOST AN ELECTRON in faded block letters. You can see the rest of the joke disappearing into the collar of his cardigan.
"Grace."
He looks up. The pen behind his ear stays where it is.
"Hey." A real smile, no edge to it. He is genuinely happy you came in. He is genuinely happy a lot of the time, which you have decided is part of the problem.
You sit down across from him. Not next to him. Across. Eye contact territory.
"What are you working on?"
"Cell lab writeups." He flips one around so you can read it upside down. "This one has labelled the nucleus three times. Different sizes. Different arrows. Like they were hoping one of them was right."
"Maybe they were hedging."
"It's a nucleus. There's one of them. That's the whole bit."
"You sound personally betrayed."
"I am personally betrayed."
You take a sip of the terrible coffee. He watches you do it, registers nothing, looks back down at the lab writeup. You take another sip, slower this time, and rest your chin on your hand and look at him until he glances up again.
"Can I help you with something?"
"No."
He waits.
"I just like watching you grade."
You have said this in the voice you use to order at a deli. Calm. Specific. Slightly bored.
He blinks. The pen taps against the desk twice. You can see him filing this, see the little wheels start to turn, see them turn the wrong way and pull into a siding labelled SHE IS BEING WEIRD ON PURPOSE AND IT'S FUNNY.
"Okay," he says. "Well. It's not a spectator sport, but you're welcome to stay."
"Mm."
You hold the eye contact for one beat too long. He breaks it first. He looks down at the lab writeup and you watch a flush start at the back of his neck and disappear into the cardigan and he does not appear to notice that either.
"Your shirt's funny," you tell him.
"Thanks. I lost an electron."
"I know."
"Oh." He looks down at his own chest like he's checking. "Right. Yeah."
"Are you positive?"
He laughs, and the pen behind his ear finally falls out and clatters onto the table. He picks it up. He puts it back behind his ear.
"That was very good," he says. "I'm using that. I'm telling my third period that."
"Don't tell them you got it from me."
"Why not?"
"Because I want them to think you came up with it. I want you to take the credit."
"That's weird."
"I'm being generous."
"You're being weird." He's still smiling. "But I'll take it. Thank you."
"How's the cell unit going, by the way."
"Good. Fine." He waves a hand at the stack of writeups. "Slow. Some of them are getting it. Some of them are drawing what I can only describe as a fried egg with a beard."
"That's organelles, Grace. That's just organelles."
"It is not organelles, it's-"
"It's mitochondria. The beard is mitochondria."
"The beard is not mitochondria, the beard is them not paying attention, you can't-"
"Mm."
He squints at you. He has, again, lost the thread of his own sentence. This is happening more than usual today and you are choosing not to examine why.
You finish your coffee. He goes back to grading. You stay another four minutes for no reason you would say out loud, and when you get up to leave he says see you tomorrow without looking up, and you say see you tomorrow back, and you walk down the hallway smiling at nothing.
He has no idea. He has no idea. It is the funniest thing that has ever happened to you.
—
You catch him on Monday by the photocopier, which is broken, which he is fixing, which he is fixing wrong.
"That's not the paper jam."
"I know it's the paper jam." He's crouched in front of the open panel with one hand inside the machine up to the elbow. The other hand is holding a screwdriver he has produced from somewhere. "The paper jam is a symptom. The actual problem is upstream."
"It's a photocopier, Grace. It's not upstream of anything. It's a box."
"Everything's upstream of something." He doesn't look at you. He's frowning at the inside of the machine in a way you have come to recognise, which is the way he frowns when he is genuinely thinking and has briefly lost track of being a person in a room. "There's a roller back here that's slipping. If I can just-"
The machine makes a sound. He makes a small triumphant noise. You lean against the wall next to it and watch the back of his neck while he works.
You could fix it in under a minute. You know you could. You unjam the centrifuge in your prep room twice a week and the centrifuge is, generously, a more dignified version of this. But it's funnier to let him try, and it has come to your attention recently that what's funny and what gets a rise out of him are, increasingly, the same Venn diagram.
"Did you ask Dale to look at it?"
"Dale's busy."
"Dale's the janitor. Fixing the copier is literally his job."
"Dale's busy and I'm here." He pulls his hand out of the machine. There is a black smudge on his forearm now. He does not notice. "Also Dale hates this machine. He told me last week. He said if it broke again he was going to push it off the loading dock."
"So you're doing Dale's job for him because you're afraid of him."
"I'm not afraid of-"
"You're afraid of Dale."
"I'm respecting Dale's stated boundaries."
"You're afraid of Dale."
He drops the screwdriver. He picks it up. He looks at you with the exact expression he uses on students who have just discovered they can argue with him, which is delight pretending to be exasperation.
"Are you going to help, or-"
"No."
"Then can you-"
"Your lesson plan was bad, by the way."
His whole head comes up. "Which lesson plan."
"The mitosis one. The one you showed me yesterday."
"What was wrong with it."
"It was boring."
"It was not boring, it was a time-lapse, that's a classic, you can watch a cell actually divide, it's-"
"It's a classic because it's boring. They're sixteen, Grace. You can't show them a YouTube video of an onion root tip and expect them to feel anything."
"You don't need them to feel anything, you need them to understand the phases of-"
"You need them to feel something or they won't remember it on Monday."
He sits back on his heels. The screwdriver is now pointed at you, vaguely, the way someone points a pen when they're making a real point. The smudge on his forearm has migrated to his cheek. You are not going to tell him about the smudge.
"Okay, what would you do."
"Yeast."
"Yeast."
"Yeast. Sugar. A balloon on top of a bottle. Let them watch something multiply in real time. Make it gross. Make the balloon get huge."
"That's fermentation, that's not-"
"It's cells doing things, Grace, which is the whole point of biology, and it moves, and it smells weird, and they will remember it on Monday."
"It's not the same unit."
"And yet."
"You can't just-"
"I'm right and you know it."
"You are not right, you are-"
"I'm right."
"Will you let me finish a-"
"No."
He stares at you. You can see him deciding whether to be annoyed or to concede, and you can see him land on annoyed because annoyed is more fun and he knows you'll keep going if he picks it. This is the part where he is at his most dangerous, which is to say his most attractive, which is to say flushed and animated and almost certainly about to lecture you, and you have come to enjoy this part so much that you are now actively engineering it.
"Okay," he says. "Okay. First of all-"
"Mm-hm."
"First of all, mitosis is foundational, you cannot just swap it out for-"
"Mm-hm."
"Stop saying mm-hm at me."
"Mm-hm."
He drops the screwdriver again. He does not pick it up this time. He stands up. He is now taller than you, marginally, which he usually corrects for by being seated or stooping or holding equipment, but he is doing none of those things now and you have to tip your chin up to keep the eye contact, which you do, because losing the eye contact would be losing.
"You're impossible."
"You're cute when you're losing an argument."
It comes out exactly how you wanted it to. Dry. Throwaway. Just the right amount of warmth to make him not know what to do with it. You watch it land. You watch him try to pick it up and find that it doesn't fit in any of his existing folders, and you watch him put it down again.
"I'm not losing."
"You're losing, Grace. Also you have toner on your face."
"What? Where?"
"Your cheek."
He swipes at the wrong cheek. The smudge stays exactly where it was. He looks at you for confirmation and you nod, lying, very gently, with the smallest possible smile.
"Did I get it?"
"Yeah. All gone."
"Thanks." He smiles at you. The smudge is still there. It is, if anything, slightly worse now. "What was I saying-"
"You were losing an argument about mitosis."
"I was winning an argument about mitosis, I just hadn't-"
"Sure."
"Hey."
You push off the wall. You step into his space. Not enough to touch. Enough to make him notice. You reach up like you're going to pick something off his shoulder, and you don't, and his breath catches in a way he is not aware of, and you step back again and you turn around.
"Where are you-"
"Bye, Grace."
"You can't just leave in the middle of-"
"You'll figure it out."
"That's not how arguments-"
You wave over your shoulder without turning around. You can hear him muttering to himself behind you, something about yeast, something about the whole point of biology in a voice that is trying to sound dismissive and is not succeeding. You keep walking. You are smiling so hard your face hurts.
In your classroom you sit down at your desk and put your forehead on the cool lab bench for a second and think, with great clarity, I am going to get in so much trouble.
—
The staff room at lunch on Wednesday is at maximum density, which means six adults trying to eat at a round table that comfortably seats four, and one microwave that has been making the same humming noise since September.
You sit next to him.
There are two open seats when you walk in. One is next to Ryland. The other is next to the new health teacher, whose name is, you have finally remembered, Brenda. You sit next to Ryland. Brenda watches you do it. Brenda is, you have come to understand over the last month, much sharper than her cardigan suggests.
"Hi," Ryland says, without looking up. He is eating a sandwich and grading at the same time, which is a thing he does, which is something the staff room has been trying to break him of since September and has accepted it cannot.
"Hi."
"I brought too many chips."
"Did you."
"Mm."
He nudges the bag toward you without looking up. You take one. You take two. On the third one he finally glances over, mildly, and says, "leave me some, you maniac," and goes back to grading.
Across the table, Brenda watches this entire exchange with the steady, professional interest of a woman watching a wildlife documentary.
"What are you grading," you ask him.
"Quizzes."
"Same quizzes as Friday?"
"Different quizzes. There are always quizzes. Quizzes are a renewable resource."
"You should pace yourself."
"I should do a lot of things."
You rest your chin on his shoulder to read what he's writing. You do this casually. You do this very casually. He does not move. He does not flinch. He keeps writing. The only thing that happens is his pen pauses, briefly, mid-sentence, and then resumes.
Across the table, Brenda raises an eyebrow at you.
You raise one back.
Brenda takes a long, deliberate sip of her diet coke.
"Stop reading over my shoulder," Ryland says, mildly.
"I'm not reading."
"You are literally reading, your eyes are on the page-"
"I'm checking your handwriting. Your handwriting is bad. You should know your handwriting is bad."
"My handwriting is fine, my students can read my handwriting-"
"Your students are guessing, Grace, they have built up a system-"
"Will you get off me."
"No."
He sighs. He keeps writing. You stay where you are with your chin on his shoulder for a full thirty seconds, and then, because you have made your point, you sit up. You take another one of his chips. He does not look at you. He does, however, push the bag a little further toward you, which is not nothing.
Across the table, Brenda is now openly looking at you.
"What," you say.
"Nothing."
"Brenda."
"Nothing."
"What."
Brenda smiles. Brenda has a smile that should be on a poster somewhere as a warning.
"You two seem cosy," she says.
Ryland looks up. He looks at Brenda. He looks at you. He looks back at Brenda.
"Do we?" he says, genuinely puzzled.
Brenda, very slowly, very deliberately, looks from him to you and back to him. She lets the look land. She is, you realise, giving him time. She is leaving the space open for him to clock the joke. She is being kind about it. She is being unbearable.
He does not clock the joke.
"We've worked together for a while," he says, by way of explanation. "We share a department."
"Mm," says Brenda.
"What?"
"Nothing."
He looks at you for backup. You look at him with your most innocent face. He looks at Brenda. He looks at his sandwich. He shrugs and goes back to grading.
Brenda, across the table, mouths at you, very clearly: oh my god.
You mouth back: I know.
She mouths: does he?
You mouth: no.
She closes her eyes for one second like a woman gathering strength. She opens them. She picks up her diet coke. She holds it up to you in a small, ironic toast, and drinks.
You take another chip.
"Stop eating them," Ryland says, without looking up.
"You said you brought too many."
"That was before you ate eight of them-"
"I have eaten four."
"You've eaten eight-"
"Brenda, how many chips have I eaten."
Brenda, without missing a beat, in the kindest voice: "I'd say roughly twelve, sweetie."
"Brenda."
"What. I'm being a witness."
Ryland laughs. He laughs at the roughly twelve, sweetie in the way he laughs at things that have caught him off guard, fully, with his whole chest, and you watch him laugh and you watch Brenda watch you watch him laugh, and Brenda, very slightly, shakes her head at you.
The look on Brenda's face says: you are in so much trouble and you don't even know.
The look on your face, you suspect, says: I know, I know, I know.
Ryland eats his sandwich. He does not, for the rest of lunch, notice anything. When the bell goes he packs up his grading and stands and says see you later to the table in general and bye, you menace to you specifically, and he leaves.
Brenda waits exactly two seconds.
"Sweetie."
"Don't."
"Sweetie."
"Brenda, I swear to god-"
"He has no idea."
"I know he has no idea, Brenda, that's the point-"
"That's the point?"
"It's the whole point."
Brenda stares at you. Brenda, slowly, starts laughing. Brenda laughs until her eyes water. Brenda picks up her diet coke and her tupperware and stands up and pats you, once, on the shoulder, with great affection and great pity.
"Honey," she says, "that man is going to figure it out, and when he does I want a seat. Front row. Centre. I will pay."
"He's never going to figure it out."
"Mm."
"Brenda."
"Mm."
She leaves. You sit at the round table by yourself with the remains of his chips and you eat one more, slowly, and you think, with great satisfaction: I have got away with everything. I have got away with everything. There is no version of the world in which this catches up to me.
There is, in fact, exactly one version of the world in which this catches up to you. It catches up to you in nine days.
—
It is Thursday at 4pm and you are in his classroom because you have an excuse for being in his classroom, which is parent-teacher conferences tonight, which start at six, and which you have both decided to prep for together because misery loves company and you, specifically, love the company in question.
He is at the board. He is drawing a diagram. The diagram is for nobody. He is just drawing it because he is talking and his hands need to be doing something, and what his hands are doing is sketching the cell cycle in three colours of dry-erase marker because he found the three colours in a drawer and got excited.
You are sitting on a student desk. Not in the chair. On the desk. Your feet are swinging.
"So the trick," he is saying, "with the parent who comes in mad about the grade, the trick is you don't defend the grade, you walk them through what the assignment was asking for, and then you let them tell you whether their kid did it. Nine times out of ten they"
"Grace."
"What."
"Practice on me."
"What?"
"Practice the speech. On me. I'll be the mad parent."
He turns around. He has a green marker in one hand and a red in the other and his glasses are sliding. He considers you for a second. Then he shrugs.
"Okay. Sure. Hit me."
You straighten up on the desk. You arrange your face into something stern. You point at him.
"My son is failing your class and I want to know why."
"Right, okay, thank you for coming in. Tell me what you understand the assignment to have been."
"The assignment was to do the worksheet."
"Right, and what did the worksheet ask-"
"How would I know, I didn't do the worksheet, my son did the worksheet, that's the whole issue."
He laughs. The red marker drops. He bends down to pick it up. When he straightens, he has refocused, and you can see him slot you into the mad parent file in his head and start running the script for real.
"Okay, well, let's pull up the assignment together, and we can-"
"Don't handle me, Grace, I am a very upset parent-"
"I'm not handling you, I'm meeting you where you are-"
"That's the same thing."
"It's really not."
"Grace."
"Yeah."
"What if I asked you a really inappropriate question. As the parent. What would you do."
His face does nothing. He is, you realise, still in the script. He is treating what if I asked you a really inappropriate question as a real prep question, which it is, because parents do ask inappropriate questions, and he is now standing at the board considering it seriously.
"Depends what kind," he says. "If it's about, like, my personal life I just redirect, I say let's focus on-"
"What if I asked you out."
He blinks.
"What."
"What if I, the mad parent, asked you out, what's the redirect."
"That has never happened to me."
"I'm asking what would you do."
"I-"
"Hypothetically."
"I'd say I'm flattered but I have a policy."
"What's the policy."
"I don't have a policy. I'd come up with one. That's the deflection, you cite a policy that does not exist and the conversation moves on."
"Mm. And what if I kept pushing."
"Why would you keep pushing."
"Because I'm a mad parent and now I'm a mad horny parent."
He laughs. The laugh is a real laugh, the kind that takes him by surprise, and he has to put both markers down on the chalk tray and rub his face with one hand.
"That's not, that's not a real, you can't-"
"Answer the question, Grace."
"I would tell you, gently, that this is not appropriate, and I would walk you to the door."
"You'd walk me to the door."
"Yes."
"That's so condescending."
"It's firm. Firm is not condescending. There is a difference."
"Walk me to the door right now. Demonstrate."
"What?"
"Walk me to the door. Show me the technique."
He stares at you. You stare back. You are, you would like the record to show, sitting on a student desk in his classroom at 4:15 in the afternoon asking him to physically escort you to the door as a demonstration of professional boundary-setting, and you have done this in the same voice you would use to ask him to pass the salt.
He shakes his head. He is smiling.
"You're trying to get me to do a bit."
"I'm trying to learn from a master."
"You are trying to get me to do a bit."
"Is it working."
"A little."
"Walk me to the door, Grace."
He sighs. He puts the markers down. He comes over to the desk. He offers you his hand, which is, you note, the most condescending possible part of the entire imaginary protocol, and you take it, and he pulls you off the desk and he tucks your hand into the crook of his elbow like a Victorian dance instructor and walks you, at a slow processional pace, the eight feet to the classroom door.
At the door he stops. He turns to face you. He looks at you with infinite kindness.
"Ma'am," he says, "I really appreciate you coming in tonight. I think we should leave the rest of this conversation for another time. Please drive safely."
You stare at him.
"That was so good," you say.
"I told you."
"You're really good at this."
"It's mostly just eye contact and a soft voice, that's all of it-"
"Do it again."
"What?"
"Do it again. The eye contact thing. Do the soft voice thing again."
"I'm not gonna-"
"Please. For research."
He laughs. He shakes his head. He does not do it again. He pulls his arm out of yours and goes back to the board and picks up the green marker and stares at the cell cycle diagram like he has lost his place in it, which he has.
You sit back on the desk. You swing your feet. You watch him try to find his place. You think, with a deep and slightly horrible warmth: I could have asked him almost literally anything just now.
You file this. You file it carefully. You will use it.
—
It is raining on Tuesday and the staff parking lot smells like wet asphalt and the school smells like wet asphalt with a top note of cafeteria, and you are in the supply closet at the back of the science wing because Mrs. Alvarez sent you for graph paper and there isn't any, but there is, apparently, Ryland Grace.
He has his back to you. He is up on a step stool, reaching for something on the top shelf, and the cardigan is gone today which means the t-shirt is doing the work alone, and the t-shirt is a faded grey one that says NEVER TRUST AN ATOM, THEY MAKE UP EVERYTHING and is riding up at the back. You can see a strip of skin above his belt. You can see, also, that he has not heard you come in.
You could announce yourself. You could clear your throat. You could leave and pretend this didn't happen.
You stand there for a full five seconds and look.
"Grace."
He jumps. The step stool wobbles. He catches the edge of the shelf with one hand and steadies himself and turns to look at you with the box of microscope slides he's been retrieving clutched against his chest like a shield.
"Jesus. Hi. Hi."
"Hi."
"You scared me."
"I said your name."
"You said it from very close."
"I said it from the doorway, Grace, I'm in the doorway."
He looks at the doorway. You are, in fact, in the doorway. He blinks.
"Right. Okay. Sorry. I was concentrating."
"On the slides."
"On the slides, yeah."
You step into the closet. It is not a large closet. It was not designed for two adults and a step stool. He notices this approximately one second after you do, and you watch him calculate whether to come down off the stool, and you watch him decide that coming down would require him to be closer to you for a brief transitional period, and you watch him stay where he is.
"What do you need?" he says.
"Graph paper."
"There's no graph paper."
"I'm finding that out."
"There hasn't been graph paper in this closet since October."
"Why is that."
"Nobody knows. It's one of the great mysteries of the science wing."
You step closer. You step closer on purpose, which is a thing you have started doing this week. There is a shelf you are looking at, theoretically, but the shelf is past him and you do not actually need anything from it, and the closet is now small enough that you can smell his deodorant and the faint chalk-and-coffee smell that lives in his cardigan when he is wearing his cardigan and apparently lives in his t-shirt when he is not.
"Move," you tell him.
"I'm on a step stool."
"Move the step stool."
"Where am I supposed to-"
"Down, Grace. Move it down. Get off the step stool."
"Okay. Okay, hang on."
He climbs down. The closet, already small, gets meaningfully smaller. He is now standing approximately a foot in front of you holding a box of microscope slides and there is nowhere for either of you to go because the step stool is between him and the door and you are between him and the shelf and the shelf is between everyone and dignity.
"Sorry," he says.
"For what."
"I don't know. The stool. I'm in your way."
"You are in my way."
"Yeah."
You do not move. He looks at you. You look at him. His glasses are sliding down his nose again and he can't push them up because of the slides, and you watch him try to do it with his shoulder, which does not work, and you watch him give up.
You reach up and push them up his nose for him.
You do it slowly. You do it slowly on purpose. Your fingertip rests on the bridge of his nose for one beat longer than gravity requires and then you take it away, and his glasses are where they should be, and your hand is back at your side, and you have, in the closet, just done something that you cannot pretend you did not mean to do.
He has stopped breathing. He is not making a big show of having stopped breathing. He has just, quietly, stopped. The colour in his face is doing something interesting. You watch it happen with the polite scientific interest of a person observing a reaction from behind a safety screen.
"Thanks," he says.
"You're welcome."
"I had my hands full."
"I noticed."
He is looking at the slides. He is looking at the slides very specifically and not at you, which is a tactical decision and not a successful one because you can see his pulse in his neck.
"Grace."
"Yeah."
"Look at me."
He looks up. You hold the eye contact. He is the one who is supposed to break it. He is always the one who breaks it. He does not break it this time. Something behind his eyes is doing maths and you cannot see the equation but you can see the shape of it, and the shape of it is new.
"Was there," he says, "something specific you needed, or-"
"No."
"You came in here for graph paper."
"There's no graph paper."
"So you can-"
"What are you going to do about it, Grace."
You did not plan to say it. You said it. It came out in the same dry deli voice as everything else, and it landed in the closet between you, and he did not move and you did not move and the fluorescent light buzzed.
"About the graph paper," he said. Even.
"Sure."
"Or about you standing in a supply closet making it difficult for me to retrieve microscope slides."
"Whichever you'd like."
"Mm."
He has, you realise, said mm. He has said it the way you say it. Not at full volume yet. Just a test. He is testing the word in his own mouth and you are listening to him do it and you have the dim, dawning sense that you should leave, that this is the moment when a more sensible woman would leave, and you are not a sensible woman, you are a woman in a supply closet two inches from a man in a faded t-shirt, and you are not leaving.
You step back. Not because you want to. Because if you do not step back in the next two seconds you will do something that does not belong in a supply closet on school property at ten past three on a Tuesday.
"I have to go," you say.
"Okay."
"Mrs. Alvarez. The graph paper."
"There isn't any."
"I'm going to tell her there isn't any."
"Okay."
"Bye, Grace."
"Bye."
You walk out. You walk down the hallway. You make it to the bathroom and you lock the stall door and you put your hand over your mouth and you laugh once, breathlessly, and you think: Okay. Okay. We are escalating now. Apparently we are escalating now. Apparently that's the game.
You are very pleased with yourself. You are giddy with how pleased with yourself you are. You wash your hands and you look at yourself in the mirror and you smile, and you tell your reflection, very quietly: that wasn't even my final form.
—
The department meeting is on Wednesday afternoon, last period, in the chemistry lab, because the chemistry lab has the most chairs and Alvarez likes the chairs.
You get there first. You sit at the back, on a lab stool, with your coffee. The coffee is from the staff room and is therefore terrible, and you are drinking it anyway because you are riding the high of yesterday and the high needs a delivery system. Alvarez comes in. Brenda comes in. The other bio teacher comes in. Two earth science people come in. Dale, for reasons that are not explained, sticks his head in, sees the meeting, says nope, and leaves.
Ryland comes in last.
He sees you at the back and he gives you a small, careful nod. The cardigan is buttoned today. The cardigan is buttoned. You have not, in eight months, seen him button the cardigan. He sits at the front. He does not sit near you.
Alvarez starts the meeting. There is a budget thing. There is a thing about field trips. There is a thing about the standardised tests, which everybody groans at, and you groan with them, performatively, and you catch Ryland's eye while you are groaning, and he looks away.
He looks away.
Something cool and bright moves through your chest. You take a sip of the coffee. You sit up a little straighter.
"Last item," Alvarez says. "Curriculum review. We're being asked to integrate more cross-disciplinary work. Each of you, briefly, what you're doing this quarter that touches another science."
The earth science people go first. They are doing something with rocks. Nobody is interested.
Brenda goes. She is doing something with nutrition that touches on chemistry. You nod politely. Brenda, across the room, gives you a look that you cannot quite read.
The other bio teacher goes.
Then Ryland.
He clears his throat. He uncrosses his legs. He says, "Yeah, so, I'm doing the cell unit right now, and I've been trying to bring in some chemistry, the basic biochem, ATP, you know, what makes the cell go, and-"
"Boring," you say.
It is loud enough for the room to hear. You did not plan to say it. You said it anyway. It comes out in the deli voice, mild and dry, and the room registers it.
There is a beat.
Ryland says, "I'm sorry?"
"I said it's boring. ATP is boring. You're doing it wrong."
The room is now looking at you. Alvarez is looking at you. Brenda is looking at you with her mouth very slightly open. Ryland is looking at you with an expression you have not seen on him before, which is carefully neutral.
"Okay," he says.
"Sorry," you say, not sorry. "Continue."
"No, please, you have-"
"No, no, you go. You were saying."
"You said I was doing it wrong."
"I shouldn't have interrupted. Go ahead."
The room is still looking at you. Alvarez has her pen down. You take a sip of your coffee with the very faint, very pleased awareness that you have just walked over a line that, for the past eight months, you have been carefully drawing in pencil and erasing.
"No," Ryland says. He has put his hands flat on the lab bench in front of him. "I want to hear it. What am I doing wrong."
"I don't want to derail."
"You've already derailed. Tell me."
His voice has not gone up. It has not gone tight. It has, if anything, gone softer, which is somehow worse. You can feel the room watching. You can feel Brenda watching. You feel, for the first time in eight months, visible in the science department in a way that you cannot entirely control, and you make the choice, because you are a woman who has decided this week to make every wrong choice available to her, to commit.
"You're just telling them about ATP," you say. "You're standing there and telling them. Of course they're bored. Make them do something. Make them generate it. Make them watch sugar burn in a calorimeter and connect it back. Don't narrate biochemistry to a sixteen-year-old, Grace, they will fall asleep."
"Okay."
"I mean it. It's lazy teaching."
The word lazy lands. You hear it land. The room hears it land. Alvarez's eyebrows go up a quarter of an inch. Brenda makes a sound that is not quite a sound. Ryland's hands are still flat on the bench. He has not, you realise, looked away from you since you said the word boring. He is looking at you the way he looks at a problem he is in the middle of solving. He is doing maths.
"Lazy teaching," he repeats, evenly.
"You heard me."
"I did. I just wanted to make sure I had it right."
"You had it right."
"Okay."
He looks down at the lab bench. He breathes out through his nose. When he looks back up, the carefully neutral face is still there, and that is what tells you, in a small cold rush, that something has gone wrong.
He has not flushed. He has not stammered. He has not done the half-smile. He has not done any of it, and the absence of all of it is much, much louder than the presence of any of it has ever been.
"I think those are good points," he says. To the room. Not to you. "I'll look at the unit. Thanks."
Alvarez says, "Okay, well. Moving on."
The meeting moves on. You sit at the back with your coffee and you do not hear another word of it because your blood is doing something strange and your stomach is doing something stranger, and at the end of it Ryland gets up and gathers his folder and his pen and he walks out without looking back, and he does not say goodbye to you, which he has not, in eight months, ever not done.
You sit on the lab stool after the room has cleared.
Alvarez stops in the doorway. She looks at you. She says, very dry, "Lazy teaching."
"I was making a point."
"Mm."
"It was a fair point."
"Mm."
She leaves. Brenda, who has been waiting, comes over and sits on the lab stool next to yours.
"Sweetie."
"Don't."
"Sweetie."
"Brenda, I-"
"That was the front row, wasn't it. I was sitting in the front row. I just want to confirm that."
You put your face in your hands.
She pats your shoulder, once, with great affection and great pity, and she leaves.
You sit there. You drink the rest of the cold terrible coffee. You think, okay, that was too far, and then you think, no it wasn't, he can take it, and then you think, why didn't he look at me, and then you think, why did he say it like that, and then, slowly, with the same kind of dread that you used to feel as a kid when you realised, three seconds too late, that the adult was actually mad this time:
oh.
oh, no.
You sit on the lab stool for a long time. You do not, when you eventually leave, walk past his classroom.
—
You don't see him on Wednesday after the meeting. You don't see him on Thursday.
This is not, on the face of it, alarming. You have prep periods that don't overlap. He has lunch duty on Thursdays. The science wing is small but it is not so small that you cross paths every day by physics alone, and there are weeks when you only see him at the Friday department meeting and that's fine, that's the normal amount, and the normal amount is what you are getting, and you are fine.
You are not fine.
You walk past his classroom three times on Thursday for no reason. The door is open. He is at his desk. He is grading. He does not look up. The third time, you stand in the hallway just past the door, out of his sightline, and you listen for a minute. He is humming. Whatever he is humming has no tune. He sounds, by any acoustic measure available to you, completely fine.
He sounds completely fine and you are losing your entire mind, and the asymmetry of this is the worst thing that has happened to you all year.
On Thursday evening you sit at your kitchen table and you grade a stack of redox quizzes and you make notes for Friday and you do not draft a text to him, three separate times. You are very proud of yourself. The not-drafting is, you tell yourself, a discipline. The not-drafting is restraint. The not-drafting is, you have decided, exactly the right move, because if you reach out now you will lose whatever ground you have left, and you cannot afford to lose ground when you are already, by your private estimate, halfway down the hill.
You go to bed. You do not sleep well.
—
Friday you go and find him.
You tell yourself you are not going to find him. You tell yourself you are going to the staff room for coffee, which is true, and that if he happens to be there, fine, and if he is not, also fine. You tell yourself this on the way down the hallway and you tell yourself this with such conviction that by the time you push the door open you have almost convinced yourself.
He is at the round table by the window.
The cardigan is gone today. The t-shirt is white and says SCHRODINGER'S CAT IS in block letters and then, underneath, in smaller letters, DEAD and ALIVE side by side. He is grading. He has a red pen in his hand. There is no pen behind his ear.
"Grace."
He looks up.
"Hey."
That's it. Hey. No real smile. No what's up. No come tell me about your day. Just hey, and then his eyes go back to the paper in front of him.
You pour your coffee. The pot is nearly empty and what comes out is the dregs and you drink it anyway because the alternative is admitting that you came in here specifically to engineer this conversation and that the conversation is going badly already.
You sit down across from him. Not next to him. Across. Eye contact territory.
He does not look up.
"What are you grading."
"Quizzes."
"Cell unit."
"Mm."
"How are they doing."
"They're doing okay."
He has not, in eight months, given you a one-word answer to a question about his students. You file this. You file it next to him not saying goodbye, and the file is starting to bulge.
"Grace."
"Yeah."
"Look at me."
He looks at you.
For a fraction of a second, before his face does the polite teacher thing, you see something underneath it. Something a little tired. Something a little wary. Something a little amused, which is the part that makes your stomach do the wrong thing.
It is gone almost before you can name it but you saw it and he knows you saw it.
"What's up," he says, evenly.
"Nothing's up."
"You said look at me."
"I wanted you to look at me."
"Okay."
He keeps looking at you. He is, you realise, much better at eye contact than you had previously given him credit for. He has been letting you win the eye contact, this whole time. He is not letting you win it now.
You break first.
You look down at your coffee. Your face is hot. You can feel it. You have not, you realise, been the one whose face gets hot. That has been his job. You have been doing the lighting and he has been doing the burning and the division of labour has been very clear and very pleasant and the division of labour has now apparently been re-negotiated without your input.
"Your shirt's bad," you tell the coffee.
"Thanks."
"It's worse than the electron one."
"Mm."
"It doesn't even rhyme."
"It's a superposition joke. It doesn't have to rhyme."
"All the good ones rhyme."
"That's not true. That's a thing you just made up."
"It's true. It's a known fact about jokes."
"Show me the data."
You look up. You did not mean to look up. You looked up because show me the data is the first thing he has said in this conversation that sounds like him, and it caught you, and you looked up to confirm it, and now you are looking at him, and he is looking at you with an expression you do not entirely recognise.
"I don't have data," you say.
"Then it's not a known fact."
"It's a vibe-based fact."
"That's not a category."
"It's a category I just made."
"You can't just make categories."
"Watch me."
He smiles. Small. Closed-mouth. It does not reach his eyes in the way his smiles usually do.
"About the meeting," he says.
Your stomach drops two floors.
"What about it."
"You called my teaching lazy."
"I was making a point."
"Mm."
"Grace."
"Mm."
"Stop saying mm."
"You say mm."
"That's different."
"How."
"It's-"
You don't have an answer to how. You did not anticipate having to answer how. You stare at him. He keeps grading. The red pen moves down the page in even, small ticks. He is not, you realise, actually reading the quiz. He is making the motions of grading. He is making the motions of being busy. He is doing what you do when you want a conversation to end and you don't want to be the one to end it.
He is making you end it.
"Okay," you say. You stand up. "Okay, fine."
"See you tomorrow."
"It's Friday, Grace."
"See you Monday."
"Yeah."
You walk out of the staff room. You walk down the hallway. You walk into your classroom and you close the door, which you do not normally do, and you sit at your desk and you put your face in your hands.
He didn't even look.
That's a lie. He noticed you. He noticed you and he chose not to act on it, which is worse, which is much worse, which is, you are realising with a slow and terrible clarity, the same move you have been doing to him for eight months.
Oh.
Oh, no.
--
[ cross posted on Ao3 ] [ part 2 here ] [ fic masterlist here ]
