Lesson After Dark

Chapter 1 : Introduction

The smell hit me first—coffee, floor wax, and the faintest trace of teenage body spray. It's my first morning at Westridge High, and I am wondering if I've made a mistake. The halls were too bright, the teachers too chipper, and my blazer feels all types of wrong. Almost like I am playing dress-up in someone else's idea of professionalism attire.

I clutch my tote bag like it might keep me grounded and stared up at the door.

Room 207.
Mr. Haynes - English III / AP Lit.

My heart is pounding. Not from nerves exactly—though those were definitely there—but from the whispers I've heard all week during intern orientation.

Declan Haynes... The legend... The ghost...The hard ass.

"He's brilliant, but an ass," one intern had said with a dramatic shiver. "Totally intimidating. Never smiles, always serious."

"Hot," another had added. "In that 'dark academia and divorce energy' kind of way."

I had laughed at the time. Now I'm not so sure.

I stare at the door with anticipation and minor fear. 'Stop being a pussy, Lex,' I think to myself. Then, I take a deep breath, then opened the door.

I glance around the open classroom to see bare walls and little decor. My eyes continue to scan the room and then I saw him. He was leaning against his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar unbuttoned just enough to be criminal. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses hung from one hand, and his gaze lifted to mine—sharp, unreadable.

"You must be Ms. White," he said, voice low and smooth, like scotch on ice. "You're late."

I give a confused look. It was seven forty in the morning. Classes don't start until eight. Is this guy serious?

"I guess I like to make an entrance," I say with an awkward chuckle. Hopefully he can cut me some slack.

His brow arched. Just slightly. But it was enough to make something twist low in my stomach. Oh this guy is serious.

He pushed off the desk and walked toward me. Not hurried. Just... deliberate and slow.

"I don't like late," he says with a glare that could kill. "But, I like confident. That's rare around here."

I swallow my anxiety into my stomach. "I'm not easily shaken."

A flicker of something passed through his eyes—amusement, maybe. I cannot get a read on this guy.

"We'll see," he murmured.

The air felt suddenly thick, too heavy for this early in the morning. I am not here for this. I am only here to teach, to learn, to keep my head down and survive until I have a classroom of my own.

But Declan Haynes is not the kind of man you kept your head down around. He was the kind you watched from across a staff meeting and pretended not to think about later. He was the kind of man who makes you shiver in your boots and contemplate your job choice.

And me?

I am the type of person who will fake the confidence on the inside. When in reality; I am shitting my pants. This man is really going to put me to the test.

"Follow me," he said over his shoulder, making his way past me.

I blinked. "Right now?"

"No time like the present, Ms. White."

God, the way he says my name makes it sound like a warning. Or a promise.

I hurry after him, heels clacking on the linoleum like I don't know how to walk properly anymore. He leads me through a short hallway and into the prep room—small, windowless, lined with bookshelves, filing cabinets, and a single, battered desk barely big enough for one person, let alone two.

"This is where we plan," he says, gesturing to the desk. "Grade. Avoid students. Drink coffee and complain."

He sits in the creaky desk chair, opens a drawer, and pulls out a thick binder. "This is the curriculum map. You'll want to get familiar. I don't believe in hand-holding."

"Oh, good," I mutter. "I forgot my leash."

His head snaps up, and for a terrifying moment, I think I've crossed a line. But then—God help me—he smiles. It's small, crooked, like he doesn't smile often and maybe forgot how, but it's there. And it does something to me I'm not proud of.

"You've got bite," he says. "That'll help. The kids eat weakness alive."

I grab the binder and slide onto the tiny bench beside the desk. Close enough that I can smell his cologne—spice, cedar, and something warm that I can't name. Close enough that if I shifted even an inch, my thigh would brush his.

"Don't get too excited," I say, flipping open the binder. "I cry in my car on Thursdays."

He huffs out something like a sigh of annoyance and nods towards the lesson plan. "Tomorrow's discussion is on The Crucible. You'll lead second period."

I look up sharply. "Already? I haven't even—"

"You've read it," he interrupts. "I checked your file. Honors Lit, American Gothic focus. Top of your cohort."

"I still need time to prep—"

He turns toward me fully now, and I feel his gaze like a hand on my jaw, tilting me up.

"Sink or swim, Ms. White," he says quietly. "I don't do coddling."

There's a beat where neither of us moves. I don't know if I want to slap him, run out the building, or cry. Possibly all three.

And then he leans in a little, lowering his voice like he's sharing a secret with just me.

"But I'll give you this," he murmurs. "You tank? I'll make sure no one knows but me."

And just like that, he stands, brushing past me again—close, too close—and heads for the door.

"Class starts at eight. Try not to be late again."

He disappears down the hall, leaving me alone with a binder, a pounding heart, and the sinking realization that I am in so much more trouble than I thought.

Because I don't just want to prove myself to Declan Haynes.

I want to shock him.

And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.