She slid into her car and closed the door. He stood in the rain, watching her drive away until her taillights disappeared into the gray.
He walked back to the building, soaked to the skin and clutching his closed umbrella. He was cold, wet, and his lesson plans were probably ruined. But all he could think about was the look in her eyes just before they were interrupted, and the terrifying, wonderful realization that he was no longer just confused.
He was falling. Hard.
Chapter 8:
The Winter Formal Gambit
The Winter Formal was the one school event Ben usually avoided. The loud music, the awkward dancing, the overwhelming scent of teenage anxiety and cheap cologne—it was his personal vision of hell. But this year, the Social Studies department was on chaperone duty.
He stood near the wall of the gym, which had been transformed with twinkling lights and silver streamers, feeling about a thousand years old. He adjusted his tie, a simple navy blue, and watched the swirling mass of students. And then he saw her.
Maya was across the room, helping a nervous freshman girl pin a corsage. She wasn't in her usual paint-splattered clothes. She wore a simple, emerald green dress that made her skin glow and her dark curls seem even wilder. She was laughing, completely in her element, a vibrant splash of life in the sterile gym.
His breath caught. The woman who argued about budgets and splattered paint with passionate fury was also the woman who could calm a nervous teenager with a gentle word and a smile. The contradictions that had once frustrated him now captivated him utterly.
As if sensing his gaze, she looked up. Her eyes found his across the crowded room, and her smile softened, turning a little shy, a little knowing. She finished with the student and began to weave her way through the dancing couples toward him.
His heart started a frantic, un-historical drumbeat against his ribs.
"Fancy meeting you here, Mr. Carter," she said, coming to a stop beside him. "I didn't peg you as a school dance enthusiast."
"I'm not. It's a contractual obligation," he said, his voice tighter than he intended. He gestured vaguely at the scene. "It's... loud."
"It's alive," she corrected gently, her eyes scanning the room with affection. "Look at them. They're terrified and exhilarated all at once. It's kind of beautiful."
He followed her gaze, trying to see it through her eyes. The clumsy dancing, the shy glances, the bursts of laughter—it wasn't chaos. It was a ritual. A messy, human, and yes, beautiful one.
The DJ shifted to a slower song, a classic ballad that even Ben recognized.
Maya turned to him, a mischievous glint in her eye. "You know, as chaperones, it's our duty to model appropriate dance floor behavior."
Ben froze. "I... I don't dance."
"Everyone dances," she said, her voice a challenge and an invitation. "It's just moving to music. Even you can manage that, Mr. Spreadsheet." She held out her hand. "Come on. One dance. For the kids."
He looked at her outstretched hand, then into her hopeful, daring face. Every sensible part of him screamed no. This was a terrible idea. It was unprofessional. It was crossing a line.
But he was tired of lines.
He took her hand.
Her fingers were warm and sure as they laced with his. His other hand found its place on the small of her back, the emerald silk smooth and warm under his palm. She rested her hand on his shoulder, and they began to move.
It was awkward at first. Ben was stiff, his movements measured and careful, as if he were following a diagram in a manual. But Maya was a natural, her body fluid and responsive, gently guiding him until his steps loosened and fell into rhythm with hers.
He stopped thinking about the steps. He stopped thinking about the students watching, about Cynthia Briggs's inevitable judgment, about lesson plans and fire drills. There was only the music, the warmth of her in his arms, and the dizzying scent of her perfume.
"You're a natural," she murmured, her head tilted back to look up at him.
"I'm a disaster," he countered, but he was smiling.
"Same thing," she whispered.
Her eyes were dark pools in the low light, holding his. The space between them, both physical and metaphorical, had vanished. He could feel the soft whisper of her breath on his chin. The noise of the gym faded into a distant hum. The world had narrowed to this single, spinning point of light.
He was going to kiss her. He knew it with a certainty that felt more solid than any historical fact he'd ever taught. He was going to kiss Maya Alvarez right here in the middle of the Winter Formal, and he didn't care about any of the consequences.
