Jude forced his expression into something polite. “Uh…sure. Of course.”
Warren offered a quiet nod. A smile, too. One that lifted his cheekbones and said he was pleased to see him. Jude couldn’t let himself believe in it.
Alfie mumbled a vague goodbye and headed for the door, shifting awkwardly as Mrs Turner and Warren stepped aside to let him pass.
“Oh—Alfie Carter,” Mrs Turner called after him, her tone softening. “Good to have you back. Looking sharp.”
Alfie didn’t reply.
“Alf?” Jude called after him, not wanting him to leave without something. “Remember what I said, yeah?” Jude lifted his brows, letting him know what they had said was between them only. “About talking.”
Alfie made a non-committal noise, then turned his gaze on Warren, then back to the floor as he shuffled out the door.
Mrs Turner’s smile was brisk. “You’re in luck.” She tapped Warren lightly on the arm. “Mr Bailey has offered to step in for your Year Ten trip to Portchester Castle. I’ve signed it off.”
“Oh. Right.” Jude scratched the back of his neck. “Great. Thanks. The class will be pleased it can go ahead.”
She gave Warren a light pat on the back. “I’ll leave you two to sort the finer details. And Jude? Let’s get those parent letters out today, hm?”
“Yeah. Sure. Will do.”
With that, she swept out.
Warren lingered. Then stepped fully into the room, filling it without meaning to. Too broad. Too confident. Too… much. At least for Jude right then.
He grinned, spreading his arms theatrically. “Looks like I’m your knight in shining armour.”
Jude inhaled too fast, caught off guard.
What would he give to have a real knight in shining armour swoop in and save him from the wreck of his life? But that wasfantasy. Not reality. And Jude only dealt in facts and truths. Not fiction and hope.
Warren dropped his arms as if picking up on Jude’s hesitation. “I meant…the castle thing, right? The trip. It’s… a castle? Knights and kings and queens stuff.”
Jude cleared his throat. “Yeah. Castles. Very witty.”
Warren’s smile tipped sideways, a little less sure of itself now.
Jude couldn’t handle that look. So he staggered back into his chair, turned on the PC, and focused hard on the boot-up screen.
Warren didn’t leave.
He drifted through the classroom, easy steps carrying him past display boards and laminated posters, leftover remnants of better teaching days. Student essays pinned at odd angles. World War propaganda. Timeline maps. Jude’s carefully chosen quotes tacked across the walls. And Jude watched him from behind the safety of his screen, the glow of the monitor reflecting in his glasses.
Warren bent to read something, close enough to squint at a caption, and nodded as if it meant something to him. Smiled to himself. And Jude’s gaze dipped. Helplessly. Warren was in running shorts. Those clingy, shiny things PE teachers seemed to think passed for professional attire. They hugged his thighs, revealing thick muscle and definition that was utterly unfair for a man who was technicallyworking.
Jude blinked. Once. Twice.
Tried to focus on the keyboard in front of him.
Warren turned. Caught him mid-glance. And Jude dragged his gaze up to meet his face, but that wasn’t much safer. Because he was as handsome as he was broad. And by the look of his smirk, he’d seen where Jude had been looking.
Jude swallowed hard.Brilliant. Just brilliant.He hated himself.
Warren pointed to the quote above the whiteboard behind Jude’s head.
“‘History will be kind to me, for I intend to write it,’” he read aloud, then met Jude’s gaze. “Churchill, right?”
“Yeah. One of his… less problematic moments.”
