“Thank you, Mr Bailey.” Jude raised his mug in a dry little toast. “Good luck on your first day. Hope you don’t get peanutted.”
“By the kids?”
“No, by the staff.” Jude chuckled into his tea.
“Like to see who’s brave enough to peanut me.” Warren spread his arms to showcase the classic PE teacher uniform—navy polo, running shorts, legs like a rugby forward and an ease most people faked. “No tie to tug.”
The girls were going to swoon.
Some boys too.
The rest would hero-worship.
And Jude was a little ashamed to admit he was currently doing all three.
“Miss Linley teaches the kids to improvise.” Jude tossed Warren a wink. “And Mr Hardy teaches them to problem solve.”
Warren chuckled, then leaned in as they joined the flow of teachers heading out of the staffroom, his voice low and deep and rumbling down Jude’s neck. “So what would you yank of mine, Mr Ellison? Seeing as I have no tie to peanut. How would history work through that issue?”
Jude kept his eyes down as they were swept up by the chaos of first bell as students poured through the corridors in every direction. Mostly so Warren, and all the students, couldn’t read his thoughts.
God, he was disgusting.
And hadn’t thought things like that in…well, it didn’t matter how long.
They reached the crossroads. Humanities block right, Sports Hall left.
Jude slowed. “Don’t be too hard on them. Throwing a ball’s not as easy for some people.”
Warren grinned. “And you don’t judge too harshly when someone forgets which century the Napoleonic Wars were in.”
“Eighteenth spilling into nineteenth.” Jude smiled. “But I’ll try to hold my tongue.”
Warren leaned back on his heels, eyes crinkling. “You don’t look like the type who holds his tongue.”
Jude arched a brow. “You’d be surprised.”
Warren laughed, then nodded down the corridor. “Catch you later, History.”
“Only if you survive, PE.”
They split paths. Jude headed for his classroom, mug in hand, pulse in his throat, not thinking about the fact he’d be watching the clock now, wondering when he’d cross paths with Warren Bailey again. Which was both thrilling and terrifying. This, whatever it was, wasn’t normal for him. He didn’t get crushes. Not anymore. He’d spent years behind walls of caution, teaching himself not to look too long, not to feel too much. It had taken years just to look at men again after…
No. He wouldn’t go there.
Not when this new feeling was the first thing in a long time that didn’t hurt to hold on to. So he stepped into his classroom with renewed hope. It smelled of dust, dry-erase markers, and freshly printed timetables. The windows had been cracked open earlier by the cleaners, letting in the faint tang of sea air and the ghost of last night’s storm. Someone had already scrawledHELP MEinto the condensation on the inside of the glass. Probably one of last year’s leavers. He didn’t wipe it off.
This year, he had Year Seven form.
Someone in the timetable office clearly thought that was the easy gig.
To be fair, it sort of was. Bright-eyed. Eager. Hanging onto their innocence, these kids still raised their hands before speaking. Apologised when they swore. And believed in the world of house points and stickers.
That’ll wear off by Year Nine.
By then, they moved through the corridors like seasoned inmates in a prison drama. Hardened. Cunning. Fluent in manipulation.
He shuddered.
