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Anya Forger, despite being thirty years old and this not being her first job, had found herself in an annoyingly familiar situation.

She was running late.

Correction: she was running late and panicking and she was increasingly worried about what her colleagues were going to think of her. 

The event had started at seven, it was currently five past seven. Her breaths became more shallow as she hurried down the maze of cobblestoned pathways, the clacking of her heels echoing and ringing in her ears. With each step there was an accompanying flicker of pain, an annoying reminder that she was wearing new shoes.

Why on earth had she bothered buying them? She thought as she began to question her earlier decision making. Oh, that was right, she needed them because none of the shoes she already had matched this new dress.

…and why had she bought a new dress? Because, apparently, none of the perfectly good ones already hanging in her wardrobe were suitable.

Why did she need a new dress that met these mysterious requirements? Well, this circles back to the original problem: she was worried about what her colleagues thought. Which she would have thought she’d be well past this by this point, because again, she was thirty and this wasn't the first time she had a new job. 


Tonight was the first faculty mixer of the academic year. A monthly evening gathering for Eden Academy’s teaching staff. And from what she’d been told, it was not optional. Decline, and you risked signalling you thought you were above everyone else.

Okay, so maybe no one had said that explicitly. But, she had been told that everyone goes to these and that they’re a great way to break the ice with everyone. Plus, it was mostly the younger teachers and the higher-ups, such as the Headmaster and the Governing Board Members wouldn’t be there.


Anya had been at Eden for only two weeks, and she knew it was integral that she build a good reputation and be liked by her colleagues.

She finally reached the courtyard, a brief rush of cool autumn air brushing against her flushed cheeks. The garden’s pristine display forced her to slow her steps, weaving through narrow stone paths lined with fully bloomed rose bushes of what seemed like every colour imaginable, their petals light and fluffy, impossibly symmetrical. It was a concise summary of how Eden Academy came across to Anya, always eerily flawless and with nothing out of place.

She slowed as her eyes lingered on the spires silhouetted against the sky. The warm blush tones of sunset cast the campus in an almost otherworldly glow. This place was beautiful, its architecture strong and striking, its prestige written into every angle and corner. It hit her all at once, with a rush, the realisation that despite the struggles and all of the work, she was in fact, an Eden Academy teacher.

“Anya!”

Her name rang across the courtyard, pulling her back to the present.

Anya looked up to see Becky Blackbell, a drama teacher and currently her only kind-of friend, standing by the entrance to the east wing lounge. As always, Becky looked effortlessly chic. She was wearing a burgundy blazer with a leather skirt in a slightly darker hue, paired with ankle-high black boots. In her hand she carried a small, unmistakably expensive designer bag in the same matching leather as her shoes. The entire outfit was brought together with a soft cream cashmere scarf draped ever so carefully around her neck, one end flowing down her front, the other down her back.

She waved, her expression warm and inviting, and relief flooded in Anya’s chest. As Anya drew closer, she could see that along with the perfect outfit, Becky’s hair and makeup looked flawless as always. Her shoulder-length chestnut hair gleamed, held neatly in place with a sharp silver pin clipped at her fringe.

“Oh, Becky, you look amazing,” Anya said, admiring her style and silently screaming in gratitude that she had changed after all. Even so, she felt drab in comparison, looking down at her plain blue dress and average heels.

Becky’s smile widened as she approached. “Relax. You look amazing,” she said, giving Anya’s outfit an approving once-over.

Anya tried to smile back but instinctively adjusted the hem of her dress, still self-conscious. It was giving more of a wedding guest outfit rather than after-work drinks vibe, but it had felt like the best fit when she decided on it. “Thanks. You… look perfect. As usual.”

“Of course I do,” Becky replied breezily, looping her arm through Anya’s and steering her toward the lounge. “Now come on, I’ll introduce you to the fun people before the boring ones find you.”

Anya let herself be led, doing her best to relax, though the low buzz of conversation and clinking glasses made her hyper-aware of her surroundings.

Becky, or Ms. Blackbell, as the students called her, was the head of Eden Academy’s Theatrical Arts Department. Only a year older than Anya, she had already been teaching at Eden for three years, and in that time, the school had become renowned for its ambitious productions of both classic and modern musicals and plays.

Anya considered herself extremely lucky that Becky had spotted her on her very first day. It was right here, in the same teacher’s lounge where they now stood.

It was, without exaggeration, the most absurdly luxurious teacher’s lounge Anya could have ever conceived of. Instead of burnt drip coffee and a half-empty vending machine, Eden offered a full barista service stocked with the highest-grade coffees and teas, plus a five-star chef willing to accommodate practically any request.

Back then, Anya had been standing frozen by the counter, overwhelmed by the sheer opulence of the menu and completely unsure what to order, when Becky had approached her without hesitation.

“Oh, you don’t want the tea. Trust me.” 


Those had been Becky's first words to Anya that first day and she even followed them up with a wink. 

And that had been it.

Becky had latched on and never let go.

At first, Anya hadn’t been sure what to make of her. Becky’s energy was always so unapologetically bold which was a lot to take in at first, but after quickly realising that her fellow Classical Language colleagues weren’t exactly...chatty, she found herself grateful for the unexpected friendship.

Her position at Eden was new and far more advanced than anything she’d done before. After earning two master’s degrees in Classical Language, one from a prestigious Ostanian university, the other from an equally as impressive one in Westalis, she had spent several years teaching lower level foundation-level classes at smaller private schools. But Eden Academy was… different.

Eden Academy was unique in that they didn’t employ just one Classical Language teacher who would teach the basics to younger students before they were passed on to more intensive foreign language classes. There were actually a few teachers in every subject employed at all times, and their positions were catered to the different academic levels.

This was generally: 

Beginner (primary and elementary grades)

Intermediate (middle school grades)

Advanced (high school and pre-university levels)
 

The previous year, the Advanced Classical Language teacher had retired, making the coveted spot available.

It seemed like nearly everyone with a Classical Language degree had applied. The interview process had been brutal: panels of stone-faced administrators, being relentlessly scrutinised while performing mock-teaching sessions, an intrusive personality test, and, memorably, a twenty-minute grilling from one of the school's governors. Not to mention, since it was such an egregiously posh school, her own background, which was...different to what they were used to to say the least, had been questioned relentlessly by every interviewer, minus the Headmaster. She’d left convinced she’d blown it.

There was actually another applicant who Anya had been convinced had gotten the job. A kind of peculiar man with a strange hairstyle, plus he had boasted that he had attended Eden Academy and had been an Imperial Scholar and always scored highest on all of the Classical Language exams in his prime. Eden wasn’t at all apologetic or denied that most of its staff, were alumni. He seemed like a shoo-in. 

And yet, somehow, they hired her.


Her classroom was in the advanced humanities wing, where politics, geography, and history were taught. The building was majestic, stone facades, tall windows with thick clear glass scattering sunlight into soft prisms. And her classroom… it was a dream. Spacious, with three full-sized chalkboards, a complete set of pull-down maps, and shelves stocked with everything she needed. If she wanted something specific, all she had to do was ask; like the lounge chef downstairs, any request could be met. She knew that Eden Academy had a history of being one of the best schools in the world, but the resources they had compared to previous schools she had taught seemed limitless. 

And speaking of history…

Anya instinctively pinched the bridge of her nose at the thought of the teacher whose classroom was next to hers. The Advanced History classroom. And the man who taught it…

“Ugh,” she muttered under her breath before she could stop herself.

“Who’s ‘ugh’?” Becky asked, amused. How Becky knew she was thinking about someone, she’d never know. Was it part of being a drama teacher? Being highly perceptive of others? 

Anya sighed. “No one. Just… hoping to not see anyone from my building…”

It was shameful and a stereotype, but most teachers in the humanities… well. Anya didn’t have much in common with them. They were all many decades older than her, well-respected, and comfortable with Eden’s culture; plus, having tenure ensured that they had the ultimate job security. They didn’t need to make friends and it was obvious. 

Except for one, who was much closer to her age. The need to not make friends still applied to him though. 

Becky’s cheekiness began to show. “You mean Mr. Desmond?”

Anya didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Everyone at Eden knew who Mr. Desmond was.

Her eyes wandered over the crowd of teachers and the few familiar faces until they landed, inevitably, on him.

Mr. Desmond.

He was standing in the corner with Mr. Elman, the Beginners Maths teacher, and Mr. Egeburg, who taught Advanced Astronomy. 

The Advanced History teacher. The one whose classroom was next to hers. The youngest teacher to ever obtain tenure in all of Eden’s existence. He had only been here for five years and had managed to obtain the prestigious honour after three. 

The one who was currently looking straight at her.

His golden eyes caught hers for the briefest moment, and Anya immediately looked away, heat creeping into her cheeks.

Before she could recover, Becky leaned in with a little smirk. “Stop staring before he thinks you like him.”

“I wasn’t staring!” Anya hissed under her breath. 

Becky, lowering her voice, nodded subtly toward the corner. “Well, he and his little committee are staring at us. Honestly, he’s been like this since you started. Let me fix it.”

Before Anya could stop her, Becky raised her voice just enough to carry across the lounge: “Gentlemen, you might want to close your mouths before something flies in.”

Across the room, Mr. Elman and Mr. Egeburg exchanged awkward looks. Mr. Desmond frowned, and he gave Becky the iciest scowl, but she only smiled sweetly back, utterly unbothered.

As previously mentioned, a surprisingly high amount of the staff had actually attended Eden as students, thus they were already acquainted with one another. Becky, while not friends with any of those guys, did know them. It gave all of them a leg-up. 

For being the new teacher, sometimes it felt like Anya was disadvantaged in every way possible. 

Anya groaned quietly, leaning closer. “Becky, don’t. I have to work next to him…”

“You’re welcome,” Becky whispered with a grin, linking arms again like nothing happened as she grinned. It was like, even though Becky spent all her time with teenagers getting them to be as dramatic as possible, Becky had to instill this in other areas of her… or rather her friends’ lives as well. 

And that was when a new voice cut in, it was slightly shrill. 

“Well, if it isn’t Becky and…?”

“George, this is Anya,” Becky said as the man stepped a little too close to them.

He offered his hand, his off yellow-and-grey plaid suit somehow generating more volume than the conversations around them. “Nice to meet you. I’m George Glooman. I teach beginner’s language arts.”

Anya shook his hand politely. “Nice to meet you too, George. I’m Anya Forger, and I teach advanced classical language.”

George raised his eyebrows, stepping back slightly as his gaze swept over her in a way that made her uncomfortable. “Wait, you’re the new classical language teacher?!”

“Y-yes?” she said uncertainly, suddenly aware that half the room seemed to have gone quiet — though that was ridiculous, wasn’t it? 

“S-sorry,” George stammered, seeming to realise how it came across. “It’s just… most classical language teachers are, well…”

“George.” Becky sighed loudly, cutting him off. “Honestly.”

Before the awkwardness could deepen, a deep, familiar laugh rolled from behind them. Anya turned to find Bill Watkins, the head of physical education and rugby coach, somehow managing to move quietly despite his size.

“What George is trying to say,” Bill said with a grin, “is that classical language teachers tend to be old.”

He laughed again and rested a casual hand on Becky’s shoulder. Anya had already noticed the two were close from the few interactions she’d witnessed. Apparently, Bill and Becky had been dating for years, though they kept it quiet around students.

“Y-yeah, that’s what I meant. Honest! Sorry, Ms. Forger,” George said, looking sheepish.

“It’s fine — and you can call me Anya,” she replied with a small wave of her hand, wanting to move on quickly.

One of the things Anya still found strange about Eden was how formal everything was, even between staff. Unless someone explicitly invited you to use their first name, teachers addressed one another by surname and honorific, exactly as the students did.

The chatter around their little circle swelled again, filling the lounge. Bill was halfway through telling a story, and whatever he said made the group burst into laughter.

“Honestly, I don’t know why I put up with you,” Becky teased, shaking her head fondly.

Bill grinned and slipped an arm around her waist. “Aw, don’t be like that, Becks.”

Anya sipped her drink to hide a smile. It was… very cute. Slightly nauseating, maybe, but still cute.

“So… Ms. Forger.”

She glanced up to see George swirling his glass thoughtfully.

“Yes?” she asked, already bracing herself, because she knew exactly what was coming.

“Do you…” He paused for effect, a smirk tugging at his lips. “…have a boyfriend?”

Anya hesitated.

Would it… fit Eden’s culture better if she said yes? Would they think it odd that a thirty-year-old teacher was single? The only other younger female employee she’d spoken to much, Becky, was obviously in a relationship.

And it wasn’t as though this was the first time the subject had come up.

It had come up in her interviews. Several times.

“Ms. Forger, are you married?”

“Do you intend on starting a family? Eden is a school with traditional values…”

“Someone like you, surely you’re in a relationship, yes? Or are you hoping this job gives you access to high-profile men? Many of our parents are people of influence, and there are… people with bad intentions out there.”

That last comment, loaded with foul insinuation was from one particularly horrifying member of the hiring committee, had stuck with her. It had taken all her mental restraint not to climb over the polished oak table, grab that pompous man by his expensive tie, and punch him square in the face.

Luckily, the Headmaster had stepped in, telling the man to hush, and had even apologised to her personally after the interview. 

Still, the memory made her clench her jaw.

Anya pulled herself back to the present. Now was not the time to spiral about Eden’s questionable interview ethics. George was still looking at her expectantly. Almost like he was trying to make a puppy-dog face, but with his beady eyes, it just didn’t…work. 

And suddenly, the room felt strangely silent…like every teacher nearby had gone quiet just to hear her answer. That was ridiculous, of course. Wasn’t it?

She forced herself to take a steady breath and answer honestly.

“No. Not at the moment.”

George blinked. His eyebrows shot up. “Wait… really?!” he blurted, his tone carrying far more surprise than he probably intended.

Anya stared at him. Around them, Becky hid a laugh behind her glass.

Realising how obvious he sounded, George cleared his throat, straightened his posture, and tried to salvage his composure. “Well, um… in that case, would you like to go ou—”

“Mr. Glooman. That isn’t appropriate.”

A confident, low voice cut cleanly through the air, suppressing any tension that had built and releasing it seamlessly into the atmosphere. 

The entire group turned.

Mr. Desmond stood there, suddenly right beside them.

George nearly shrieked but managed to catch himself at the last second, coughing into his fist as though that would disguise it. He straightened his posture with exaggerated dignity, adjusting his blazer and standing a little taller.

“I—I’m sorry… what?” he asked, voice just slightly strained.

“You asking her out,” Mr. Desmond’s voice was flat and brusque as always. “It’s not appropriate. This is supposed to be a work event.”

Anya froze as his golden eyes landed on her. A chill crawled down her spine, and she knew it had nothing to do with the temperature. Up close, he was taller than she remembered…and were his shoulders always that broad? His dark brown hair looked untouched by any product, falling in uneven waves that framed his face, yet somehow every strand fell exactly where it belonged. He had a short, well-kept beard that sharpened the lines of his jaw instead of hiding them. And under the low lounge lighting, his features were softened, his hair catching faint olive-toned highlights that contrasted with his stoic demeanour. 

What unsettled her most, though, were his eyes. She could now fully take in their shape and found herself admiring the dark sweep of his lower lashes. It was handsome. He was handsome. 

She swallowed hard and forced herself to glance away quickly before anyone noticed.

“Huh? It’s a mixer,” George defended himself, his brow furrowing as his confidence returned in tiny portions. “We talk about all sorts of things.”

Becky, perched on the edge of her chair, smirked as though she’d been waiting for this moment. “Yeah, Damian…” she said sweetly, the name rolling off her tongue with deliberate yet wholly unwelcomed familiarity.

Anya immediately looked away from him. Damian. She knew that was his first name, she’d seen it written plenty of times, but hearing Becky say it out loud… To her, he was always Mr. Desmond. They weren’t… familiar enough for anything else. She was going to keep calling him that in and out of her head. Felt the most respectful thing to do. 

George, now encouraged by Becky’s jab, puffed himself up a little more. “Exactly,” he added as he took a big gulp of his drink. “Work. Life. Literature. Romance. Very intellectual conversations, really.”

Becky snorted into her glass and Bill laughed loudly and without restraint.

“But seriously…” Bill began as his laughs subsided, “Why do you care Damian? If I’m honest, I’m surprised you’re even here, you don’t usually show up to these things.”


Utterly chuffed, Becky was grinning ear-to-ear hearing this, “Yeah, Bill’s right, you don’t ever come to these things, why now?”


The words had come out of her mouth, but as she glanced from Mr. Desmond to Anya, it was obvious she had her own theory. 

Mr. Desmond’s left eye twitched. He crossed his arms and scowled, donning his signature pose, though Anya noticed the faintest flush creeping up his neck.

“I care,” he said, his voice sharp with irritation, “because, as I said, this is a professional event. And you shouldn’t be bothering Ms. Forger with this sort of thing…”

Anya shivered as she watched the exchange unfold. The way he said “Ms. Forger” made her feel like she was back in school, being reprimanded by a teacher. Logically, she knew she should have found it insulting. It was completely patronising. Utterly belittling. This was the first time he’d ever really acknowledged her existence and this was how?

But…for whatever reason…


The rush of feelings swirling inside her; ones that had only arisen since the moment he appeared and would not go away, were now accelerating out of control. There was something about him that was just so… masculine. It unnerved her. But it also… impressed her.

Mr. Desmond’s glare continued tearing into George before he finally turned to face Becky. “If you care to know, Ms. Blackbell.”

Becky, who unlike Anya wasn’t the least bit intimidated, simply rolled her eyes. “Just think it’s interesting you don’t want George asking Anya out, that’s all.”

Anya froze as Mr. Desmond’s gaze suddenly locked on hers. The redness in his face bloomed, and his fists clenched at his sides.

She knew then, that he was furious. 

Although they had very few and very limited interactions, Anya had no doubt that Mr. Desmond took his job seriously, but she had never seen him look like this. He had barely muttered something incomprehensible when they were first introduced when Headmaster Henderson showed her the classroom, and ever since, if she had tried to greet him in the mornings or wish him a good evening, she had always been met with the same response: a scowl.


A scowl that was distinctly his and hit her like no other scowl had before. 

He did not like her. He probably did not even think she deserved to be here. On the hierarchy of the delicate ecosystem of Eden Academy’s faculty, he was considerably higher than she would probably ever be. A tenured teacher, alumni, and she now remembered that somewhere she had overheard that he had some sort of family connections? A brother and father on the governing board? Had they possibly interviewed her? 

It was obvious she had not attended Eden herself, and it was clear that the school quietly preferred alumni teachers. Compared to how stressed Mr. Desmond’s students always looked when they left his classroom and from the bits of chatter she had overheard, she knew he was tough, assigning long, difficult essays and gruelling exams.

“It’s fine. Mr. Desmond is right. This is a work event," she said, wanting to speak for herself. 

She glanced at him, searching for some sign of acknowledgment. Instead, he immediately looked away, his face still faintly red. She had not meant to upset him, and the thought made something twist uncomfortably in her chest.

“I’m sorry, George,” she said, forcing a polite smile. “I’m not interested. And honestly, I don’t date men I work with.”

It was a rule she had just made up on the spot, but maybe, hopefully, it would keep anyone else from bothering her too.

Damian Desmond prided himself on composure. On control. Eden Academy demanded it, and he delivered. At work, he was all business, just like his father had drilled into him.

Until Ms. Forger arrived.

When he’d heard Eden was hiring a new Advanced Classical Language teacher, he’d expected someone severe, reserved, the type who lived for dusty manuscripts and monotone lectures. He assumed they’d at least be in their fifties and like the previous teacher, unremarkable and entirely forgettable. 


Headmaster Henderson had certainly talked this new teacher up at the last faculty meeting before the new school year started:

“We have a new Classical Language teacher starting. I believe she shows great promise and will be a fantastic addition to the faculty. She is a most elegant find.”

The twinkle in Henderson’s monocle had been brighter than Damian had seen in years, which was already suspicious enough.

At the time, Damian had simply been relieved it wasn’t that irritating Arnold Crowley. Of course Crowley had applied. The man had been insufferable back when they were students and Imperial Scholars together, and time hadn’t improved him. Crowley and the handful of dreary Classical Language professors Eden had hired over the years were the only frame of reference Damian had for people who pursued the subject seriously.

Admittedly, as a scholar of history, Damian found Classical Language itself… fine. He’d never done better than average in it, and none of his teachers back then had been particularly inspiring. He respected its importance, the formative language of modern science and literature and all that, but, honestly? Among Eden’s vast array of subjects, it was widely considered one of the less exciting ones.

…and that was coming from a history teacher. A history teacher specialising in ancient civilisations, no less, the very ones that relied on Classical Languages.

His classroom had always been right next to the Classical Language one, and year after year he’d watched students leave it glassy-eyed and half-asleep. To be fair, they weren’t exactly thrilled to walk into his room either, but Damian took his role as an educator seriously. He taught with conviction.

Yes, his father and brother sat on the board that governed Eden, but Damian’s passion for History had existed long before any of their expectations. If anything, their influence only drove him harder. He wanted no one, not colleagues, not students, not his family, to believe he was coasting on his last name. He was here to be excellent.

He had his own style. It was undeniably strict: heavy reading, demanding essays, relentless questioning, and an expectation that every student came prepared. His reputation preceded him. But it worked. In five years of teaching, no one had ever fallen asleep in his class and, more importantly — not a single student had failed.

And not because he made things easy.

If someone was falling behind, he didn’t simply pass them. He refused to. That was the lazy solution and Damian Desmond wasn’t a lazy teacher. He stayed after school, rewrote lesson plans, tracked down different ways to explain the same concept until it clicked. He pushed and would keep pushing. And when one of his students finally went from struggling to getting it, when the spark lit behind their eyes, that was the closest thing Damian had ever felt to real victory.

People assumed teachers only cared about their top performers. Damian disagreed. A real educator cared about all students. The brilliant ones were easy. The true challenge was reaching the ones who thought they couldn’t succeed. And Damian had made it his mission to prove them wrong.

Classical Language, on the other hand, had always felt like the subject no one took seriously. Not the students. Not the faculty. Only weirdos like Crowley. So when Henderson described this supposed elegant new hire, Damian honestly couldn’t picture her.

By the time the first teacher preparation day arrived, he’d completely forgotten she even existed. He was busy reviewing lesson plans when Mr. Henderson came marching down the advanced humanities wing, introducing her with his usual style. It was a forbidden question to ask how old Mr. Henderson must have been at this point, but his unique flair had always been a constant. 

Damian glanced up casually… and it was like the air was retracted from his lungs.

She was wearing a cream blouse tucked neatly into a soft brown skirt, sheer brown tights smoothing over her legs, and dark brown knee-high boots that somehow made her legs look long, despite her being a head shorter than him. Her hair, it was long, silky, shining under the hallway lights and framed a face he was absolutely not prepared for. 

And then there were her eyes.

If he thought Henderson’s monocle sparkled… her green eyes dazzled.

Damian’s mind had somehow stalled and was overwhelmed simultaneously. 

She was beautiful. Unreasonably beautiful. And young, so much younger than he’d expected. Too young, in fact, for someone who was supposed to take on one of Eden’s most academically demanding positions.

Which immediately set off alarm bells in his head.

He could tell, just from years of living and breathing this place, that she wasn’t from a background like his. Or like most of Eden’s faculty and students. It wasn’t just the clothes. There was something in her expression, an open kind of wistful innocence he’d seen before in students from more common backgrounds. The ones who arrived wide-eyed, desperate to fit in, not yet hardened by Eden’s quiet cruelty.

He hated himself for noticing it.

He hated himself even more for liking it. He could tell that she'd be a nurturing and kind person. 

…And he already really liked her.

Which made no sense.

Someone who looked like that, with that hair, that skin, those ridiculous eyes… What business did she have being hired as Eden’s Advanced Classical Language teacher?

Had she somehow impressed the notoriously brutal hiring committee with sheer brilliance?

Or had they simply been spellbound. The same way he was, right now?

Damian’s throat felt impossibly dry. That had to be it. There was no other explanation.

Yet, he kept watching her. She smiled  politely up at Henderson, her long lashes catching the light, a sharp and unsettling thought hit him with humiliating force:

In all of the years of his life, he had never thought of another woman the way he was thinking of her.

It was absurd. It was inappropriate. It was infuriating.

And then she turned that demure polite smile on him.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Desmond.”

“…Er.”

He knew he should say something. Anything. A greeting. A polite acknowledgement. Literally any words.

But his heart was pounding.

…Pounding?

Wait, how long had that been going on?

It was like his brain had been wiped clean. Nothing came to mind, not a single thing that sounded appropriate, sparing  any intelligence, or remotely normal.

Headmaster Henderson cleared his throat, filling the silence Damian had singlehandedly created.

“Right, I see Mr. Desmond is keen to work on his lesson plans,” Henderson said, smoothing over the awkward pause with practiced grace. “He is actually our youngest-ever tenured faculty member. You’ll be in very good hands working next to him.”

Damian managed a stiff nod, hoping it passed as professionalism rather than whatever questionable mental state he was clearly experiencing. 

Then Henderson motioned for her to follow him, and Ms. Forger cast one last glance his way as she turned to leave.

And Damian swore that the air around her was twinkling. Like stars, like she was a star. Is that possible? Should he ask Ewen? Can a human being and a star somehow be one and the same? 

By the time she disappeared from view, he wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t hallucinated the whole thing. Maybe he’d wake up any second now, slumped over a stack of unread essays, Henderson never having said a word about a new hire at all.

But as the days went on, it became painfully obvious it hadn’t been a dream.

And it had only gone downhill since.

Every morning and evening, she greeted him warmly in the hallways, and every morning and evening he somehow fumbled the response. Whenever she was there, his stomach would flip and his chest would feel all funny and it was like the control of his body was no longer his. Sometimes it came out too curt, he always scowled without meaning to, and inevitably his throat locked up entirely. She probably thought he hated her. Which, honestly, was safer than the truth.

Because the truth was:

He liked her. He had never liked anyone, he was beginning to realise, and he liked her. 

And he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed her.

It was only days later that Damian overheard a pair of his eleventh-grade students whispering outside the courtyard.

“Wow, Ms. Forger’s so lovely.”

Damian had agreed silently, then immediately deducted five metaphorical points from the boy’s participation grade.

Then another voice added:


“Lovely? She’s hot.”

Ten points off that one. Out of professional courtesy, of course. Not jealousy. Definitely not because he wholeheartedly agreed and was already furious about it.

And, of course, it wasn’t just the students. The faculty had noticed too. Damian caught himself glaring whenever the other teacher,; grown men, old enough to know better, stared far too long when Ms. Forger arrived each morning, greeting them politely before heading to her classroom. They were as ancient as the texts he assigned his students. Where was Mr. Henderson to chastise them for their inelegance?

By the time lunch rolled around a few days later, the situation had only gotten worse. News of Ms. Forger had clearly spread past the boundaries of the Advanced Humanities wing. 

“Dude, have you seen the new Classical Language teacher?!”

Emile’s voice carried loudly across the staffroom, his mouth full as usual. 

The three of them, Damian, Emile, and Ewen, had made it a habit to eat lunch together a few times a week. Pure coincidence had landed them all teaching at Eden, but somehow, years later, they’d fallen back into the same routine they’d had as kids.

Ewen glanced up from his neatly stacked papers, brow furrowing. “No, I haven’t. But…” He hesitated, tapping the edge of his pen thoughtfully. “It’s odd. My students are suddenly very interested in Classical Language this term. Damian, she’s next to you, right? The one who replaced Mr… what’s-his-name?”

Damian stabbed at his food with his fork, cheeks warming despite himself. And if as on cue, the bubbly weird feeling was hitting him too, great. 


“Y-yeah,” he muttered. “I’ve… seen her.”

The other two exchanged a look instantly. Childhood best friends didn’t need explanations. Something was up.

Ewen adjusted his glasses, considering Damian silently. He decided to be merciful, giving him space and questioned Emile instead.


“Why bring her up, then?” he said, leaning forward. “Does she look…?”

“Oh, I saw her with Becky yesterday,” Emile said, pausing as he took another bite, “she’s—” He stopped short, glancing at Damian, unsure how to finish.

Then Ewen stared at Damian as well, the two of them silently coaxing him to divulge his thoughts on this new teacher’s appearance. 

Finally, Damian groaned, tossing his fork and knife onto the table and burying his face in his hands.


“She’s beautiful,” he admitted, voice muffled. “Like… honestly. Stupidly beautiful.”

“Oh-ho-ho. Now we’re talking,” Emile said gleefully. While the three men had been lifelong best friends, Damian had only acknowledged a woman’s attractiveness a disturbingly small amount of times. Like could count on one hand small. 

Ewen set down his pen with a sigh. “So that’s why you’ve been acting strange.”

“I’m not acting strange,” Damian snapped as he sat up straighter.


“Oh you’re definitely been weird,” Emile said, still grinning.


Damian glared at him but didn’t deny it. Because it was true. In the days since her introduction, he’d come to several unsettling realisations:

Ms. Forger was, unfortunately, real.

She was, somehow, a fully qualified Classical Language teacher.

And, worst of all, like everything else about her, she had a nice voice.

Through the thin classroom walls, he’d heard her reciting ancient lines from poems written eons ago to her students, lines he himself had slogged through half-asleep as a teenager in that same classroom…and never in his life had such a boring language sounded so alive.


He’d overheard fragments of her lectures, and the way she spoke… there was no mistaking it. She loved her subject. Like him, she taught to make her students feel the meaning behind the words. This wasn’t just a job for her. She cared.

By this point, Emile and Ewen didn’t need Damian to say it outright. They knew. Entirely credited to their strong lifelong bond, perks of which included the ability to communicate wordlessly. 

“You can’t even talk to her, can you?” Emile asked as the gears had now shifted. Their priority was to help Damian out. 

Damian sighed heavily. “I don’t have time for… any of that. I’m teaching.”

Both men exchanged a look. Even though this new modus operandi (the usage of Classical Language here made them both stifle more giggles which were also entirely expressed mentally), had only materialised moments ago, it was now of the utmost importance. 

Then Emile snapped his fingers, triumphant.


“The mixer! Thursday night. If she’s mates with Becky, she’ll definitely be there.”

Ewen nodded in agreement knowing Becky Blackbell’s vast powers of persuasion. “Perfect. Come with us. You can talk to her then.”

Damian stroked his beard, strong even facial hair something he had definitely inherited from his father, he had long given up being clean shaven as it was nearly impossible to keep up with, “…I don’t know. I have papers to grade.”

“You always have papers,” Emile shot back. “And besides, I heard all, and I mean all, of the coaches want to ask her out.”


Ewen then had a moment of doubt and questioned the situation, having a sudden moment of realisation at how absurd this all sounded, “Wait, you can’t be serious?”


“Well, I mean, not Bill obviously, him and Becky are committed,”


“No,” Ewen scoffed as he instinctively inspected his pompadour with his hands, it was a form of a safety behaviour that grounded him, “She — the new teacher — cannot be that attractive, surely, all of the coaches..?”

Without any hesitation both Damian and Emile then spoke simultaneously, “She is!”


The following days were spent with the blonde pair telling Damian that he was now attending on Thursday evening. He kept trying to convince them that he couldn’t. 

But of course, nothing came up and like the plague that inevitably took out the Mitrean civilisation, time moved on.

Emile and Ewen had insisted they arrive early “just to be sure,” and having to stand here making boring small talk while knowing there were heaps of essays stacked on his desk was clawing at him.

Plus, he kept incessantly checking the door. Every time it opened, his heart would leap, only to crash when it wasn’t her.

This was exhausting.

Emile kept handing him pints and patting him on the back, while he and Ewen had strategically placed Damian between them so there was no escape.

Just as Damian was considering making a break for it, ready to claim, truthfully, that the papers really had to be graded, the door opened and of course he turned to look.

It was Becky Blackbell, loud as ever, and then… her.

Ms. Forger.

Looking…he wasn't sure if he had the words to describe how she looked. 

She wore a navy satin dress that shimmered faintly under the lights, the colour pairing well with her perfect complexion. Her hair was swept back with a sleek clip, the loose waves pulled higher now but still falling softly down her back. Her full neck was on display, and the few strands that framed her face made her look, to say something that only Mr. Henderson would — elegant. 

Damian froze, caught staring without even realising it, until a sharp nudge to his ribs snapped him out of it.

Emile leaned closer, muttering under his breath, “Bossman…” A nickname Damian hadn’t heard in over ten years. “Cool it, you’re like, really staring.”

Damian staggered slightly, dragging his gaze away and gripping his glass tighter, forcing himself to focus on the beads of condensation running down its surface. Anything to ground himself.

From the other side, Ewen followed his line of sight at last. His normally impassive expression faltered slightly as his eyebrows lifted just a fraction. He exhaled quietly, then muttered under his breath:

“…O-okay. Yeah. She’s… wow.”

Ewen didn’t need to say more. Clearly, he understood the situation now that he’d obtained visual evidence. 


Unfortunately, the three had not gotten away with avoiding being noticed as Becky's voice rang through the room directly at them:


“Gentlemen, you might want to close your mouths before something flies in.”


Damian had never felt the urge to run and hide as strongly as he had in that moment. Knowing it wouldn't help the situation, he looked at Anya, who was still so pretty and was looking at him too so he immediately looked away. 

What followed next was an awkward entanglement of the three men hovering at the wrong end of the room, trying and failing, to migrate closer without looking obvious about it. At a painfully slow pace, they inched toward Ms. Forger’s side of the room, timing it with casual sips of beer and fake nods at passing colleagues.

But Damian noticed it immediately: every single male teacher’s gaze following her.

Especially George Glooman’s.

Damian already disliked George on principle. Had ever since that time in first grade when George had tried to accuse him of both smoking and littering. But now, watching him swagger toward Ms. Forger, Damian’s chest tightened sharply.

The three of them still had a ways to go, and whatever ramblings Glooman was inflicting on her were thankfully out of earshot. Until his next words carried across the room.

“Do you… have a boyfriend?”

Damian’s nervous system took a huge dip as he was now faced with something his mind had been concealing the very real possibility of from his consciousness.

The reality that Ms. Forger could be taken. Of course she has a boyfriend. How could she not? She was smart and attractive. The kind of teacher whose students actually liked her. There was no way she was single.

That was the rational thought. But deep down, buried and unwanted, there was a fragile, burning hope that she’d say no. Like a flame that refused to be extinguished, no matter how much cold, heavy water, in this case, the usual strong current of rationality, he tried to pour on it

“No,” she said softly. “Not at the moment.”

Warmth bloomed deep in his chest.

Ms. Forger… wasn’t with anyone?

Again, he realised his pulse was skyrocketing. How long had that been going on?

And if she was single… he could actually—

Before Damian could finish that thought, George’s voice cut across:

“Well, would you maybe like to go ou—”

“Mr. Glooman, that isn’t appropriate.”


It was akin to an out-of-body experience. He knew that voice. It was his best “listen to me now, students” voice; the one that had taken years of practice to perfect. But wait… that must have meant he’d actually spoken.

Wait. How did he end up here? He was across the room, yet somehow suddenly… Damian’s eyes scanned his surroundings and he looked back to where he thought he was but wasn’t. 

Emile immediately choked on his drink; Ewen muttered, “Oh, he’s dead.”

Damian then realised he had rushed over and told George off for trying to ask Ms. Forger out. 

Like George was one of his students. 

It was his job, sure, but this was undeniably…humiliating. George, despite being…well, George, was a grown man. The same age as Damian, a whole thirty-one years. 

What was wrong with him? He never acted like this, so impulsively and possessively.

The sound of George’s voice making an atrociously pathetic sound brought Damian back. 

“I—I’m sorry… what?” he asked, voice just slightly strained.

Then suddenly like a switch was flipped, whatever this impulsivity that had begun to fester within him took over again.

“You asking her out,” Damian said the enforced tone had returned and was at full strength, “It’s not appropriate. This is supposed to be a work event.”

It was like the words were just coming out of his mouth? Why was this happening? It was all so illogical and completely nonsensical.


Then, he looked at her. Ms. Forger. Who he was now so physically close to.


Seeing her like this, after trying to get close to her all night…


The rush of feelings inside him had been simmering ever since she had walked through the door, but now, standing this close, they surged, fully enveloping him and taking him under, rendering him powerless to stop it.

There was something about her that was just so… unmistakenably feminine. But, feminine in a way that he had never seen from any other woman… it felt incomprehensibly overwhelming and primal.

He stood there letting the rest of the conversation go over his head, Glooman  floundering and Blackbell being a busybody.

Then Bill, who was actually the person Damian liked and respected the most out of everyone he’d known longer in this group, asked, “Why do you care, Damian? If I’m honest, I’m surprised you’re even here. You don’t usually show up to these things.”

Damian had to bite his tongue to keep from snapping. Was it necessary for Bill to point that out? Here? Now? And in front of her?

He stayed silent, considering what to say next, but then Becky joined in, taunting him and questioning his presence, and now two people had brought it up in front of Ms. Forger.

Who may, in fact, be the actual reason he was here, but still.

Why did he care? Because this was a workplace, and Ms. Forger was a teacher, a member of staff trying to do her job without being harassed by idiots like George Glooman, a man who could barely scrape by on his performance reviews teaching first graders, for crying out loud.

“I care,” Damian said finally, his voice clipped, “because, as I already said, this is a professional event. And you shouldn’t be bothering Ms. Forger with this sort of thing.”

Becky just rolled her eyes. “Just think it’s interesting you don’t want George asking Anya out, that’s all.”

Anya.

The name landed. Anya. He’d seen it on the faculty list, he knew it, but somehow it had always slipped past him until now.

Despite the fact that he’d been… thinking about her far too often lately.

His gaze found hers before he even realised it. For a moment, her wide green eyes locked with his. The lounge lighting caught the faintest sheen in her hair, and everything else in the room faded out.

Then the heat rose in his face, fast and unrelenting.

She froze beneath his stare, shifting slightly like she wasn’t sure what to do. It sent an unwelcome thought creeping in: did she find him intimidating? Like his students did?

The idea unsettled him more than he liked.

And that frustration turned inward. This wasn’t his classroom where he knew every rule and every outcome. Here, he felt completely out of his depth.

He’d studied the great generals and tacticians of history, men who commanded armies and rewrote the course of nations. Yet faced with one woman across a faculty mixer, he didn’t have the faintest clue what he was doing.

He tore his gaze away, scowling at himself.

And then Anya smiled politely and said, “I’m sorry, George, I’m not interested. And honestly… I don’t date men I work with.”

The words hit harder than he expected. He schooled his expression into cool neutrality, but inside, something twisted sharp and low in his chest.

He should walk away now. That would be the best. But his legs weren’t moving. 

“Ah, Bossman there you are!” Emile exclaimed as him and Ewen had finally managed to make their way to them. 

Since when were these events so popular? 

“Hello, you guys okay?” Ewen greeted the group. 

“Oh, Anya, this is Mr. Elman or Emile who teaches Beginner Maths and Mr. Egeburg, or Ewen who teaches Advanced Astronomy,” Becky introduced the two to An… no Ms. Forger.

Damian didn’t feel like it was appropriate of him to even think of her by her first name. 

She shook their hands and smiled, “It’s nice to meet both of you,” 

“Yeah, you too, how are you finding Eden?” Emile asked as nudged Damian with his foot encouraging him to step closer.
 

“It’s…” Anya bit her lip as she determined an answer, “It’s very different to the other schools I’ve taught at, that’s for sure,” she said with a pink flush to her cheeks.
 

Damian’s heart melted. Because she was currently adorable with her demure appearance and seeming a little shy and how could he not think that?

Ewen tilted his head curiously. “Were you teaching Classical Language at a high school level at your last school?”

Anya shook her head. “Oh, no. This is my first time. I’ve only taught at schools that focus on the foundations of Classical Language for younger children.”

There was a subtle beat of surprise from everyone around her. At Eden, it was unusual to hire someone external, and rarer still to give them such an advanced teaching position.

Damian blinked, genuinely taken aback. She didn’t seem new. From what he’d observed, she handled her classes with ease.

George, clueless to the shift in tone, scoffed lightly. “Oh, well, wouldn’t it be easier to teach the younger students anyway? I mean, you only really need to know the basics of Classical Language for them, right? It’s kind of… useless beyond that.”

The air went still.

Everyone turned slowly to look at him.

Damian’s whole body went rigid as he was contemplating strangling George. 

But, surprising everyone, Anya smiled lightly, not offended in the slightest. “I know that’s what most people think,” she said gently, “but I’ve always found it beautiful. Classical Language is connected to so much, not just the past but the way we understand thought and storytelling now. I love it. There’s so much history, culture and even identity hidden in the words themselves.”

George shrugged lazily still not reading the room.“Still. It’s a dead language. No one even speaks it anymore.”

Damian’s fist curled so tightly.

Anya, however, didn’t waver. “Well, actually,” she began with the energy of someone getting excited about talking about their favourite thing, “recently, remains from the Mitrean civilisation were discovered! And possibly even artefacts predating them! They’ve found tapestries and plaques with what looks like a rudimentary form of Classical Language recorded on them!” She turned her head slightly deep in thought, but continued her tone quiet but certain. “So no, I don’t agree. It’s very much still relevant. My hope is that, by working here, I can make a difference with the students now… and eventually contribute to research when the time comes.”

When teachers at Eden made tenure, they had the option of beginning their own research campaigns and, similar to the supplies, would receive a generous, nearly unlimited budget to do so. Most didn’t bother with it.

Realising that Ms. Forger would and that she was someone who actually wanted this. Well, it made these newfound feelings Damian was having for her, intensify. 

And again, before he could stop himself, he said, “That’s true. Some of the Mitrean artefacts are actually coming to the Berlint Museum later this year. I’d been planning to arrange a field trip, but I’d need another teacher’s approval and…”

He stopped.

Because he’d just realised he was looking directly at her.

And worse, everyone else had realised it too.

Becky pinched Bill’s arm under the table, earning a muffled yelp. Ewen’s gaze flicked briefly to Emile, and they shared a silent exchange before Emile discreetly gave Damian a subtle thumbs-up. Which made Ewen then discreetly put his hand over his face cringing at Emile. 

Damian ignored them, trying to school his face back into indifference.

George yawned loudly still unable to grasp any of the subtleties that were going on. It was his greatest strength and weakness. “Yeah, I don’t think this discussion is for me. It was nice to meet you, Anya. I’m gonna go find the other beginner teachers.” And he wandered off, blissfully oblivious.

And with George went the tiny rush of adrenaline that had carried Damian through the conversation, leaving behind the slow, creeping descent of humiliation.

“Yeah,” he said quickly, his voice a little rougher than he intended, “I think I’ll head out actually. I’ve got a ton of essays to grade.”

“What? But—” Emile began, but Ewen cut him off with a firm shake of his head. They both knew Damian’s mind was made up.

Before anyone else could say anything, Damian turned and walked away, his stride measured and deliberate.

Even so, he could feel Ms. Forger's eyes following him all the way across the room.

After Mr. Desmond left, Anya found herself glancing toward the door more than once. Conversations carried on around her, and people tried to include her, but her attention kept slipping back to where he had been standing.

It wasn’t that she was upset. She just… would have liked to have heard him say more. But clearly, he hadn’t wanted to talk about it, and she respected that.

After a while, she decided to step away. She thanked everyone for the evening and said she was heading home.

But first, she had to retrieve her coat and bag from her classroom.

The lights were still on in the Advanced Humanities Wing even though it was quiet. She had no issues getting into her classroom, and her coat and bag were right where she had left them. Swiftly, she put them on and was outside the door, locking it for the night, when she realised that someone was at the door next to hers doing the same.

“Oh!” She startled, clutching her bag. “Mr. Desmond, I... I didn’t realise you were still here.”

He nodded, adjusting his grip on his keys, avoiding making eye contact with her. “I was just finishing up.”

She hesitated, then blurted, “I… wanted to apologise. If I’ve disrupted you this week. Or today. Or… generally.”

Was this the right time? Probably not, but Anya knew she had to do it. All of that stuff at the mixer and how angry she had made him. She couldn’t stand by and not at least try to apologise.

Damian, now having no choice but to look at her, and she was still in that dress, and now her hair was down and moved with her nervous moments, catching the light, somehow managed to actually speak.

“…Disrupted me?”

Truthfully, yes, she had disrupted him. She had been an astronomically huge disruption. Nothing about the way this school or his job worked felt the same anymore.

And he didn’t want it to.

He wanted her to stay. He wanted these changes. If there was an option of going back, of her not working in the room next to his, he wouldn’t take it. Whatever she was thinking, he had to convince her otherwise.

She gestured toward the wall between their rooms, cheeks pink. “I know I’m new, and I probably talk too much, and I’m not as strict as you, and your students are so disciplined. I just… I’m trying, and I don’t want to—”


“Anya.”

She froze at the sound of her name. So did he, but he didn’t take it back.

“What are you talking about?” he said softly. He could do this, he could be normal. 

She fiddled with the handle of her handbag. “…I just thought you were frustrated with me.”

He stared, incredulous. “I’m not frustrated with you.”

“Oh.”

His throat felt tight, but he forced the words out, “If anything… I should apologise. I go too far sometimes…preparing for lessons… It’s not you.”

Her shoulders relaxed slightly and then she smiled. It was a small gesture but somehow so warm. A warmth he wanted to be pulled into. 

“I don’t think it’s a bad thing,” she said as she relaxed and took some steps closer to him. “I think it’s admirable. I wish I could push my students like you do. You’re… really good at what you do.”

His ears went hot as he could see the shine in her eyes. It was admiration, he was passionate about his subject and teaching. And somehow, he knew, even from that first, highly awkward meeting that Anya was the same. He tried to stay composed as her praise was making that funny feeling spread. 

“You’re… really good too.”

She hadn’t expected that from him. How would he know? She had only been here a few weeks and they hadn’t spoken much, surely she had misheard. 

“…Sorry, what?”

He cleared his throat, straightening his posture, “your students. I’ve seen them leaving class. They look… excited about Classical Language. I’ve never seen that in the years I’ve been here,” he then paused as his face began to burn as he continued, “you’re doing better than you think you are.”

Anya’s breath caught faintly, and then her cheeks flushed pink. “…Thank you. That actually means a lot.” She couldn't believe it, he thought she was doing well. Her, doing well, here, at this job, one of the top teachers, praising her, it was all happening. 

For a moment, the hallway was quiet as the two of them processed what had just been exchanged. Both of their hearts dancing, their compatibility, while entirely unaware of it, mixing and mincing like pigment and water blending on paper. Different forces and materials, opposing at first, merging together and becoming something stronger. 


Then she shifted her bag and asked hesitantly, “Would you… maybe be willing to talk to me about teaching sometime? I’d love to hear how you structure your lessons.”


Damian's heart which, again, he realised was once again pounding fiercely like he had run a marathon, suddenly slowed. Had she just asked to talk to him?  


“I mean…” Anya began quickly, realising how forward it sounded. “I know you work late, and obviously you’re Cecile Housemaster, and you’re probably involved in a lot of committees, but maybe we could arrange a time… maybe on the weekend? Or—”

He didn’t hear the rest. The details were being flashed rapidly in his mind: weekend, arrange, talk to him.

“Yes,” he said abruptly.

Her eyebrows lifted, and a small, surprised laugh escaped her.

He cleared his throat, trying to recover. “…I mean, sure. If you want.” His gaze flicked aside, his cheeks still warm.

And that was when Anya realised something she hadn’t let herself think before: he was cute. The always-serious, icy Mr. Desmond… was cute.

Fluttery feelings stirred low in her chest as she pulled a notepad from her bag, scribbled down her number, and handed it to him. Their fingertips brushed briefly. “Thanks, Mr. Desmond.”

“…Damian’s fine.”

She hesitated, then smiled softly. “…Thanks… Damian.”

The sound of his name in her voice nearly knocked the air from his lungs. He tucked the paper carefully into his pocket, like it was fragile, managing only a stiff nod before she turned and walked down the hallway.

When she disappeared around the corner, Damian let out a slow, shaky breath.

“She doesn’t date men she works with,” he muttered under his breath, leaning against his classroom door.

Despite the sting of it, he was smiling.

At the bus stop, Anya huddled her hands deep into her pockets, her face aching from grinning nonstop. She exhaled softly, staring down at the pavement as the cool evening air grazed her face.

She had finally managed to get the teacher next door to really talk to her… but now, inconveniently, she was almost certain she had a crush on him.