Sionel Vayre stood awkwardly in the corridor, his sensible shirt already rumpled, hands curled tight around the strap of a battered satchel. The Mayfair High he remembered felt both unchanged and quietly haunted, like an old song with a different arrangement. Teen voices echoed down the hall. He was twenty-six and still felt like a scared boy in a borrowed tie.

He saw her—Elora Vian—in the threshold of her counseling office, golden-brown hair loose over the shoulders of a soft blue dress. She looked up from a heap of forms and smiled, tired but impossibly kind, her lips quirked as if she knew a private joke. Sionel’s chest tightened. Elora’s posture was relaxed but alert, arms tucked across her stomach as if she might bolt or reach for someone, given reason enough.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come back,” she teased, voice low and warm.

He grinned, rubbing the back of his neck, wishing he’d worn something that didn’t show sweat. “I never really left, did I?”

Their laughter caught at a raw, secret place. Elora’s gaze lingered too long; his did too. A flush crept up her throat. The bell rang, and she shifted, smoothing her dress, reasserting boundaries with practiced grace.

Later, Sionel found himself drifting into Calise Arrowyn’s classroom by accident—or fate. Calise was perched on the edge of her desk, leather boots scuffed, arms crossed, dark hair pulled into a sharp ponytail that framed her angular cheekbones. Her gaze was direct, almost combative.

“You’re blocking the board, Vayre,” she announced, voice quicksilver slick.

He stepped aside, mock-bowing. “Forgive me, Arrowyn. Old habits.”

She smirked, but her fingers tapped nervously along her sleeve. Their banter held invisible barbs, a history neither would say aloud. For a heartbeat, Calise’s eyes softened, but just as quickly, the mask returned. She turned away, shoulders set, as if to banish him from her thoughts.

Night fell. Staffroom lights hummed with false warmth as Sionel lingered over cold coffee, his tie loosened, posture heavy with fatigue. Elora slipped in—barefoot, quietly rebellious, an oversized cardigan draped over her dress. She hovered by the doorway, arms folded, biting her lip.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked gently.

She shook her head, curls falling forward. “Too much noise up here,” she said, tapping her temple. Her voice quivered on the edge of something she wasn’t ready to confess.

Wordlessly, he patted the seat beside him. She hesitated, then crossed the distance, legs curled beneath her on the battered couch. They talked—fragmented memories, whispered regrets, laughter that wound tighter each time. Sionel’s hand hovered above hers, and their fingers finally, tremblingly, touched. The hush between them bristled.

Elora looked up at him, thick lashes fluttering. “We can’t—” she started, voice a whisper.

But Sionel reached, brushed a strand of hair across her cheek. Her eyes fluttered closed. The spark became a fire—all instinct, mouths crashed together, breathless. He pressed her against the chalkboard, hands frantic at her hips, her nails scraping lightly beneath the hem of his shirt, as if claiming skin long denied.

The world shrank to sweating palms, bitten lips, her gasp as he trapped her thigh between his, kissing her hungrily, their clothes askew in the hurried scramble. Elora’s hand pressed desperately at his chest, half-pushing, half-clinging, as if she wanted to stop and never stop in the same trembling moment. His mouth found her neck and she moaned, the sound soft and sharp in the empty room.

They gripped each other, bodies finding frantic purchase, stifling laughter and cries beneath the threat of discovery. Elora shuddered against him, eyes wide, alive with fear and need. “Sionel—my god—” she breathed.

He kissed her again and again, as if it would erase every ache that came before, as if it might keep hope alive for just one night more.

After, she slipped away into the corridor, hair tangled, cardigan pulled tight around her. Sionel watched her go, his shirt half-untucked, heart hammering in his chest. Only when he dropped into his chair did he notice the scrap of paper slipped beneath a stack of essays: heavy black ink, trembling.

You haven’t changed at all.

To be continued...