Because Reuben, right in front of Warren, belched, loud and grotesque, breaking the moment.
Warren shoved his shoulder. “Seriously? In here?”
“Ow, sir!” Reuben rubbed his head.
“Didn’t even touch you.”
Warren caught Jude’s gaze ahead. But it was short lived and they were back on the coach taking them to the hotel.
Check-in was a noisy mess of room keys and complaints about who got which room. Each pair of students was assigned a room in a neat line along the second-floor corridor. Jude and Warren placed at opposite ends by the stairwells, positioned like sentries at either side. And they were granted ten minutes of reprieve before dinner. Barely enough time for Warren to take a piss, swap his sweat-soaked shirt for something clean, and splash cold water on his face. Fifteen years working for the Met in undercover gigs, gang units, surveillance on some of the worst London had to offer, yet somehowthisfelt like the hardest shift of his life. Teenagers, hormones, damp socks, and crumbling castle walls.
Teachers didn’t get paid enough. Not by a long shot.
Downstairs, the hotel restaurant was a low hum of clattering cutlery, laughter, and overlapping conversations. The tables had been pushed together into long rows, the fixed menu laid out in front of groups of excitable Year Tens who hadn’t stopped buzzing since they’d stepped off the coach.
Jude sat further down with a cluster of boys, fielding questions about castle sieges, Roman engineering, and whether trebuchets could still technically be legal in a domestic dispute. Warren spotted Alfie Carter among them. Quiet, withdrawn, but glued to every word Jude said. Not just listening.Clinging. He made a mental note. He’d have to log that later. The connection. The dynamic. All of it. But for now, he slid into the spare seat at a nearby table with Lily and Amelia, who were halfway through their bread rolls and deep into a forensic dissection of who fancied who.
“You got a girlfriend, sir?” Lily asked, eyes wide with faux innocence.
Warren didn’t look up from unfolding his napkin. “That’s none of your business.”
“But you’re not married,” Amelia chimed in. “You don’t wear a ring.”
“Nope. Not married.”
“So… a boyfriend, then?” Lily grinned.
Warren huffed out a laugh. “Still no.”
“You’re fit, though,” Amelia added.
Warren folded his arms, raising an eyebrow. “Wildly inappropriate.”
“What?” Lily shrugged. “You’re a PE teacher. You teach fitness. We’re giving feedback.”
“Appreciate the professional assessment.” Warren shook his head.
“Amelia thinks Alfie Carter’s fit.” Lily nudged her mate under the table.
“Shutup.” Amelia glowed redder than Jude ever had.
Warren’s gaze drifted then, uninvited but inevitable, back towards Jude, seated at the table across the room. Their food had arrived: chicken nuggets and chips, trip standard. Jude was handing out ketchup sachets, sleeves rolled up, laughing at something one of the boys said. Alfie Carter was next to him, more relaxed than Warren had seen him all day.
“Mr Ellison thinks you’re fit, too,” Lily said, smirking as if she’d won a bet.
Warren turned back to them, brow still arched. “Again, wildly inappropriate.”
Amelia grinned, mouth half-full of nuggets. “He keeps looking at you.”
“We’re colleagues. Teachers. Communicating. You know, to stop you lot walking into oncoming traffic.”
“No.” Lily popped a chip in her mouth. “It’s not that kind of look. It’s eyeing-you-up look.”
“Total crush energy.” Amelia nodded. “Same way he used to look at Alfie Carter’s new dad.”
That made Warren pause. “The mechanic?”
“No, the copper,” Lily corrected. “PC Webb. He comes in for assemblies. Online safety and stuff.”
