` The morning sun slanted through the grimy window of the principal’s office, casting long shadows across the scuffed linoleum floor.

`

` Philza pushed the door open with a creak, his mind already running through the familiar script of apologies and promises it wouldn’t happen again. Another call. Another fight. Another meeting.

`

` He stopped mid-step.

`

` You were already there. Leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, sunglasses pushed up into your hair. Your jeans hugged your hips. The white shirt stretched taut across your chest, and your belly curved soft beneath it. Your hair cascaded in loose waves down your back, catching the light.

`

` Phil’s mouth went dry.

`

` He knew that face. High school. Jschlatt’s class. He’d never worked up the nerve to speak to you then.

`

`

` The principal cleared his throat, looking between the two of them.

`

`