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"Besides, a man like Brock probably has women throwing themselves at him constantly. I doubt he's looking for anything serious with someone from his daughter's school."

I look at her. "Was there something else you needed?"

Jennifer's smile slips.

"Goodness, Megan. There's no reason to be rude. I'm only looking out for you."

She leaves before I can respond.

The mechanical hum of the copier does nothing to calm my racing pulse. If whispers about Brock start turning into complaints of favoritism, a single administrative review could destroy the career I’ve spent my entire life building.

By eleven o’clock, my nerves are still frayed. I step out of my classroom to escort my students down to the library, and that’s when I hear her voice echoing near the front office.

Jennifer’s light, musical laugh drifts down the corridor like wind chimes.

I pause just outside the library entrance, letting my aide take the line of children inside, and glance toward the main corridor.

Brock is standing near the administrative counter, holding two heavy supply boxes stacked in his arms. Even under the harsh fluorescent lighting of the school hallway, dressed in his tailored charcoal suit without the jacket, crisp white sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, he commands the space. Every inch of him looks powerful, poised, and utterly out of place among construction-paper bulletin boards.

And Jennifer is standing inches away from him.

Far closer than necessary.

"You really shouldn't have carried all those in yourself, Brock," she purrs, resting a manicured hand lightly on his forearm. Her fingers linger on the dark fabric of his sleeve. "Though I suppose a man with your build doesn't mind the heavy lifting. We are just so spoiled to have you here."

A sickening flare of heat rushes straight to my face.

Just two hours ago, she stood in the lounge warning me about ethics, safeguards, and the dangerous appearance of impropriety. Now, she is leaning into Brock's space with an easy, practiced tilt of her head, her smile dripping with sweet flirtation.

"I keep telling Dr. Harrison we need to find a way to properly thank you," Jennifer continues, her tone sweet and inviting. "Or better yet, find a way to keep you more involved with our grade-level events. We'd love an excuse to have you around the building more often."

Then she glances down the hall and our eyes meet for a fraction of a second. I can't tell if she noticed me standing there or if it's pure coincidence, but a sharp flare of irritation and jealousy spikes in my chest anyway. Get your hands off him.

My nails bite into the binder clutched against my chest, my pulse thumping uncomfortably.

Brock doesn't indulge her. He doesn't smile, and he certainly doesn't lean into the flattery. Instead, he shifts his weight, smoothly stepping back to set the top box onto the counter, causing Jennifer's hand to fall awkwardly into empty space.

"The front desk has the inventory list," Brock says, his voice low, flat, and unequivocally professional. "Dr. Harrison asked for the donation receipt, which is taped to the lid."

"Oh, well, wonderful," Jennifer says, quickly smoothing her cardigan, though her smile tightens at his lack of warmth. "Still, if you ever need⁠—"

Brock cuts her off simply by turning his head.

His dark eyes find mine across the hallway. The cool disinterest vanishes, replaced by a sudden, intense focus so heavy it steals the air straight from my lungs. His jaw sets, a flicker of heat passing between us before his expression locks into careful restraint. He doesn't smile—he knows the risks just as well as I do—but the quiet, unyielding weight in his stare makes it clear that Jennifer doesn't hold a single second of his attention.

He gives me a single, formal nod of acknowledgment—a parent greeting a teacher—before turning back to the counter to sign the drop-off log.

Jennifer turns to look back down the hall, her lips pursing into a thin line before she plasters her bright, performative smile back on and glides toward the faculty room.

I turn on my heel and walk quickly back to my empty classroom, my pulse hammering in my ears.

The next morning, the knot of terror in my stomach is so tight I can barely breathe.

I arrive at school thirty minutes early, hoping to slip into my room unnoticed. But as I walk down the administrative hallway toward the staff mailboxes, the heavy oak door to Principal Harrison’s office swings open.

Jennifer steps out just as I reach the mailboxes.

She stops when she sees me, smoothing the front of her cardigan, her hands held tightly at her sides.