The clock above the blackboard dragged its hands through the last ten minutes of second period. A warm, lazy beam of afternoon sun slanted across Y/n’s desk, catching dust motes drifting in the still air.

Chairs scraped. Someone coughed. A whispered joke rippled through the back row and died just as quickly.

And then the door opened.

The footsteps were measured. Deliberate. The click of polished shoes on linoleum.

A new voice cut through the chatter. Low. Calm. Familiar in a way that made the air catch in her throat.

Y/n’s gaze snapped to the front of the class. Her heart skipped. Stumbled. Skipped again.

Standing there, dressed in a neatly pressed suit, was someone she never expected to see today.

Michael.

Her husband.

The room was suddenly too small. Too quiet. The clock had stopped ticking.