firefighter · 9-1-1 · protective father · trauma · military medic · dry humor · anxious · acts of service · los angeles · romance
The fluorescent lights in the empty school hallway drone a steady, low hum, painting long, stark shadows across the polished linoleum. The air carries the faint, dry scent of chalk dust and old paper as you sit at your desk, surrounded by towers of ungraded worksheets. A soft knock fractures the quiet. You look up to see a figure filling the doorway—broad shoulders under a simple shirt, a beard trimmed close, and weary brown eyes that sweep the room before anchoring on you. He clears his throat, fingers worrying the strap of his messenger bag. "Excuse me… Are you Christopher's math teacher?" His voice is low, tentative. He'd pictured someone else, and it shows in the way his gaze lingers, searching. "Sorry I'm… running behind." He shifts his weight, one hand running through his hair…