How It Started
When I started teaching at my old high school, I thought I knew what I was signing up for--lesson plans, late-night grading, maybe a few awkward run-ins with former teachers in the copy room. What I didn't expect was students tackling me with hugs at the grocery store.
When I was a teenager, we didn't dare look at our teachers outside of school. If you saw one at the post office or movie theater, you turned the other way. But now, three years into the job, I've learned that boundaries aren't what they used to be.
I live just a few miles from campus with my husband, Dan--we've been married a little over five years. High school sweethearts. Married in college, we grew up together, and now live in the same town where we met. Dan works IT at the hospital. Our careers differ wildly, but he understands my late-night grading marathons.
Contractually, I am required to advise a club or coach, I'd quickly dismissed swim team duty--been there, done that. Advising NHS felt easier: recognize top students, attend ceremonies, keep things neat and clean.
I was wrong.
Selecting new inductees became my biggest responsibility. I created a fair process--teacher evaluations, behavior checks, academic honesty--everything scored objectively. I didn't vote, just facilitated and tallied. It felt cleaner.
It worked--until it didn't.
There's always that 1%. The kids who don't make it, and the parents who won't accept no.
The worst of them all was Mike Lawson, a senior in my 4th-hour class.
Mike had casual charm that bought him leeway in most classrooms--but not mine. Three teachers, including myself, had caught him cheating. My case was textbook: phone under desk, notes barely hidden. His English and science teachers reported the same.
His art teacher adored him, praising his incredible, mature work. But NHS isn't about artistic talent--it's about character.
He didn't make the cut. Not even close.
A week later, the front office called. Mike's father had requested a meeting.
I recognized the name: Steve Lawson. Local businessman, charity board member--his name probably graced several plaques downtown. I wore my best blazer, documentation ready.
I was prepared for an argument.
I wasn't prepared for him.
He walked in like he owned the place--not arrogant, just natural. Tall, sharply dressed, with a charcoal coat tailored like it was sewn that morning. His handshake was warm and deliberate, his large hand cradling mine. His voice smooth, persuasive. He even smelled nice.
"Jill, right?" he asked, eyes bright but unreadable. "Thanks for making the time."
I nodded, gesturing toward the chair.
He sat easily. "I don't understand. Mike's got a 3.7 GPA, AP courses, leadership roles. Teachers love him, yet he didn't make NHS?"
My voice stayed calm. "Mike failed the character requirements. Three documented cases of academic dishonesty. It's the standard we set."
He listened quietly. Then leaned forward, hands folded. "I get your process. I respect that. But a mistake shouldn't end his path forward, right?"
"That's why it's collaborative--multiple teachers, not just me."
His gaze drifted--not to the binder. Higher. And I felt it. Not crude, but deliberate. A beat too long.
I didn't move. Heat rose in my cheeks. I hated that he noticed--and worse, that I liked it.
I caught myself tucking my hair slowly behind my ear, my voice softer as I thanked him for coming.
He stood, offering his hand again. I took it.
"You're very sharp," he said, voice low. "I respect that. Hard to find nowadays."
I should've turned away.
Instead, I smiled faintly. "Well, I try."
I felt it--the treason in my pulse.
He paused by the door. "OK, I understand. Maybe this is the kick in the pants he needed."
The door closed behind him.
I'd expected a fight--not to flirt back.
I couldn't remember the last time a man had looked at me like that. Definitely not Dan--at least, not recently.
That Winter
By winter, the NHS drama felt behind me. But I'd be lying if I said Steve Lawson hadn't crossed my mind.
Early-morning swims became my escape. Three mornings a week, I swam laps quietly, resetting my mind before class. Calm, rhythmic solitude.
Until one morning, the locker room wasn't empty.
I had just finished changing when I saw Julia--Mike's girlfriend--by the sink.
"Oh, hey," she said casually. "Didn't know you swam this early."
"Didn't know you worked out this early," I replied.
She nodded, returning to her water bottle. Nothing unusual.
A week later, it was different.
My swim partner canceled, but I didn't skip my "me time." Afterward, I stepped from the shower, reaching blindly for my towel--gone.
Julia emerged from a stall, dripping and towel-less. Seeing the empty hooks, she smirked knowingly. "I know where some big paper towels are. Wait here."
She returned moments later, walking as if her nudity were a crown. Barely old enough to vote, yet she moved with a confidence I envied--and didn't understand.
As she neared, I was reminded on how tall she was. Athletic. Built by varsity sports and teenage metabolism. Her breasts were small, high. Her skin smooth and unbothered by the cold air. She made no effort to cover herself.
I caught my breath as my eyes lowered--she was completely bare "down there". Smooth. Very intentional.
Eventually, she handed me the thin, paper towel. I wrapped it quickly around myself, nipples stiffening from exposure. Julia, however, stayed comfortably bare, eyes drifting deliberately over me. Observing. Measuring.
She stepped closer, voice lowering almost covertly.
"You know, Mike was right about you."
My heart froze. "What do you mean?"
Without hesitation, Julia gently tugged the paper towel free, letting it fall at my feet, leaving me utterly exposed under the fluorescent lights.
I gasped sharply, pulse racing. My instinct screamed cover up--but shock, confusion, curiosity froze me.
