I tilt my head, watching him. “Mmm. How chivalrous of you.”
His nostrils flare. His hands drag over his face, rubbing at his eyes. “Just finish your coffee, Sophie.”
The way he says my name sends another ripple down my spine.
“I’ll drive you home once you’re done.”
I lean back, pretending to consider. “No breakfast first?”
He shoots me a look, clearly exasperated and unimpressed. But there’s something else there, too.
A hesitation.
Like he almost, almost wants to say yes.
But then he shakes his head. I pretend not to be disappointed.
I go quiet for a moment, staring into my mug, letting the silence settle between us.
Then I ask, softly, “Can I ask you something?”
His eyes lift to mine, wary but open. “Yeah.”
“Why’d you become a teacher?”
He blinks, caught off guard. Not by the question, maybe, but by me asking it– like he hadn’t expected me to care.
He leans against the counter, arms folded across his chest. It takes him a few beats to answer.
“I didn’t want to, at first,” he says slowly. “I wanted to be an author. Still do, I guess. But I needed work. A friend offered me a long-term sub position, and I said yes. Figured it was temporary.”
I wait. I can feel there’s more.
“But it wasn’t just a paycheck,” he admits after a beat. “I startedseeing how many kids came through those doors with no one looking out for them. No one telling them they mattered. And I remembered what that felt like. Being seventeen. Angry and alone. I thought... maybe I could be the person I needed back then.”
I can’t look away from him, his words resonating with me in a way I couldn’t have anticipated.
“You’re kind of hard to read,” I say softly, eyes on my mug.
Theo glances at me, brows lifting slightly. “That a bad thing?”
“No, just…” I shrug. “Most people I meet talk about themselves constantly. You don’t. It’s… different.”
He leans back a little, lips quirking. “Not much to say.”
“I doubt that,” I murmur.
His eyes flick toward mine again. “People don’t usually ask.”
That lands heavy, the emotion behind his words like a punch to the gut. I pause, fingers tightening around my mug.
“Well,” I say, leaning towards him just the smallest bit, “they should. You deserve people who ask.”
He studies me for a long second. “And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“What made you start drawing?”
