Lyra leans against a half-open window in the corridor, the late autumn chill tracing her bare arms. Her uniform blazer hangs from her elbow, white blouse unbuttoned just enough to reveal the delicate pulse fluttering against her throat. She keeps glancing back at the door to Peris’s classroom, eyes glassy with longing and a secret thrill that makes her lips part, then close again. When Torrek appears beside her—sweat-streaked from practice, hair a dark copper tangle—she startles.

He smirks, leaning in close, the scent of grass and cologne clinging to his skin. “You keep looking at that door like you’re waiting for someone to sweep you off your feet,” he teases, voice teasing but gentle. His gaze lingers too long, seeing more than she wants him to.

Lyra’s cheeks color. “It’s nothing. I just think Mr. Alderct is… different.” The words tumble out—half confession, half invitation. She laughs, swallowing her nerves. Torrek’s posture softens, but his jaw flexes, anxiety flickering beneath the surface.

“Careful, Haldene.” His tone shifts. “People here eat crushes like that alive. You’re too soft for this lot.” He means to warn, but there’s something lonely in his glance, something Lyra misses in her haze of infatuation.

She tugs at the hem of her skirt, knees knocking as she clutches her battered poetry notebook. “You won’t tell anyone, right?” Her voice is a breath, more hope than trust.

Torrek shrugs, pushing off the wall. “Your secret’s safe. For now.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his tired eyes, and as he turns away, Lyra’s chest tightens, stranded between fear and fragile hope.

In Peris’s dim office, the teacher sits at his battered desk, cardigan sleeves pushed back, hair tousled as if he’s run his hands through it a dozen times. Caelum stands just inside the doorway, blazer buttoned, tie knotted to strangulation. They eye each other warily—Peris measured, holding something back, Caelum simmering with tightly wound irritation.

“Your syllabus is outdated,” Caelum asserts, arms crossed with practiced precision. “No offense, sir, but don’t you think students deserve something… advanced?” Peris’s lips twitch—a smile, or the start of a frown, impossible to tell. His gaze slides to Caelum, soft but unreadable.

“Sometimes the basics hold more truth than you think,” Peris replies, voice gentle, almost coaxing. The words slide under Caelum’s armor; he bristles, but looks away, knuckles whitening around his books.

There’s a pause—thick with unsaid things—before Caelum shifts. “I could help you,” he offers, unexpectedly. “Modernize.” There’s hunger in the words, but it isn’t about the curriculum.

Peris looks up. Their eyes catch, a current snapping between them. For a second, Caelum lets himself hope for approval, for that spark of being needed. Then he catches Peris’s reserve and shutters himself, retreating with a curt nod.

After classes, Lyra lingers. The classroom is emptied of daylight now, the walls breathing secrets. Peris straightens stacks of essays, his fingers long and nervous; he doesn’t realize Lyra is still there until her presence lingers like perfume in the air. She stands beside his desk, notebook pressed to her chest, mouth opening and closing, breathless with unshed words.

“Mr. Alderct?” Her voice is small, hopeful. “Could you… read something I wrote?” She offers her notebook, her hand trembling. Peris hesitates, then accepts, his touch lightly brushing her fingers—his skin warm, lingering a fraction too long.

He reads, and as he does, Lyra studies his face—the subtle tensing of his jaw, the faint blush blooming up his neck. Her heart beats so loud she’s sure he can hear it. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. “It’s very honest, Lyra. Almost too honest.” There’s gravity in the way he looks at her—gentle, warning, craving.

Lyra steps closer, and their hands meet again, the charged space between them growing smaller, denser. She wants to say everything, but words fail. He gently pulls her hand across the page, index finger tracing her lines of verse, his breath threading with hers. Their hands linger, her skin fever-bright under his palm.

A tap at the glass—the spell snaps. Lyra bolts, cheeks aflame, clutching her notebook. Peris exhales, shoulders hunched, torn between remorse and something wilder.

Later, as Lyra slips from the office into the half-light of dusk, she nearly runs into Caelum. He looms, his posture rigid, fingers twisting at the edge of his sleeve. His eyes are sharp, suspicious—and full of something like longing. The air between them shivers with jealousy and secrets.

He watches Lyra hurry off, then leans against the cold wall, eyes burning holes in the door of Peris’s office. In the strained hush, Caelum’s jaw clenches; every perfect line in his world threatens to unravel.

To be continued...