in his office // teacher!george x reader

jesus, studying sure is FUCKING MENTALLY EXHAUSTING.

Sprinting through the doors just in time, you manage to make it inside and out of the rain by the time the bell goes. Christ. Close call, that.

Not so fortunately, however, you shake yourself off like a dog as the rainwater seeps down your back from your hair. The odd feeling makes you shudder, and honestly you can't picture how odd you must look, shaking in the middle of the hallway. The teacher at the door eyes you carefully as you peel you bag off your back, and you send them a sheepish grin.

"Morning, Mr McCartney." You offer, despite your feelings being down.

"Say, what's got you coming in so late? You're usually on time." He crosses his arms, and multiple students whisper as they pass you.

You search for something to say, and with each passing second, his frown deepens. Shit.

"I-I'm sorry, sir, I— I just—" You take a gasping inhale, "My alarm didn't go off, and— And then I didn't have time for breakfast, and my bus was late—"

He shushes you with a single raise of his hand, and your mouth snaps shut.

"You're lucky it wasn't any other teacher catching you here, aren't you?" He hums, and you run a hand through your drenched hair, "Who isn't as forgiving as me."

"I know, I—"

"I don't want to hear excuses, y/n." He snaps, and you (massively belatedly) realise that ah, Mr McCartney is in a mood today, is he?

Fucking great. Just what you need.

"I'm sorry." You pathetically offer, "It won't happen again."

His eyes are dark, and that alone makes an all-too-familiar feeling well up in your throat, forming a lump.

"Well, I'll let you off this time. A warning, though. You'll see me on Wednesday. After school."

Dread pools in your stomach, "N-No, sir, please, I can't. I have hockey—"

He waves his hand, standing straight, "Well. You'll have to figure that out then, won't you?"

You simply stand there, absolutely speechless as he goes back into his room with another condescending glance, and the door slams in your face. The hallway is empty, the only sound is your heaving breaths, and all you can think is: What.

You turn to leave, dragging your bag behind you. God, rainwater even got in your socks, so your feet are freezing, and with every step you feel a grips lurch of water in your shoes. Fab. Juuust fab.

When you make it to your class, shouldering the door open, Mr Dylan stops talking and the whole fucking class turns to look at you.

"Uh." You say, trying to appear less upset as you are.

"Nice of you to join us, y/n." He drawls, and a wave of giggles erupts across the class and turns your cheeks red. You mutter a "sorry" before shuffling to your seat, eyes downcast.

"Say, why're you so late?"

You groaned and swore under you breath, cause you'd already done this with Mr McCartney, for fucks sake—

"My bus was late. The whole morning didn't go well, anyway." You heave a sigh, pulling your books out. Mr Dylan hums, and then turns back to the board to continue teaching. A gasp tears through you when you see all of your work is completely ruined due to the rain, not a single word is legible.

"Shit, shit, shit—" You whisper to yourself, flicking through your whole book, "No, come on, really?!"

You feel a tap on your shoulder, and you look over to see your friend casting you a worried glance, "What happened?"