In honour of the chapter title & a relevant scene later on (😉), here's a gorgeous clip from The Royal Ballet's Romeo & Juliet 💌 Enjoy the chapter! x

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"I still can't believe Mr. Rogers was a catfish." Babe says, shutting her locker after fishing out her books for period 4.

Last night, after everything went down, I called on Lisa and Bea for their much-needed help. August and I had tried our best, but hugs, crisps and are you sure you don't want to talk, Mum? seemed to be of limited usefulness – Mum still hadn't moved, slept or eaten a thing. They came over to ours, I went over to theirs to brief Babe and fill Caz in via Facetime, and by the time we swapped over again, Mum had an Actimel in hand, and was actually speaking in full coherent sentences, instead of empty aphorisms. I thought I'd be at least a little over it by this morning, but I guess it isn't the kind of thing that a good night's sleep gets rid of.

"I can't believe your mum kicked him out," Cara adds, smoothing down baby hairs, looking intently into her locker mirror, "d'you think it's for good?"

I lean back against my locker, blank. I shrug,

"Not a clue. Honestly, I don't know if she's more upset that he lied or that it feels like another relationship that doesn't match up to when she was with my dad."

"Aw, babes..." Caz pouts, concerned. Both she and Babe have this theory that I never got over my dad leaving. Caz thinks it's why all my jackets are oversized. Babe thinks it's why I'm in love with an 'older man'.

"I mean, it's whatever, I just," I shake my head,

"I think she couldn't listen to him talk about being a 'good man' like we were some kind of challenge, you know? Like, if he could be the man Mum needs, or the father me and Auggie 'need'..." I throw air quotes around 'need', because we don't need a dad. We don't need anyone.

"...Then it's like, mission accomplished, you are now a 'good man'. I don't know." I say, turning to open my locker.

That's what Eric had thought of the whole thing when I explained it to him last night. It made a lot of sense to me. I like his literary approach to things.

I have a free period now, and I usually spend those writing outside, or in the library listening to podcasts and eating birthday party Oreos as covertly as possible without getting yelled at, but when I pull my laptop out, a small slip of lined paper, adorned with a prettily-penned 'E' floats into my hand.

            Hope you're feeling better today, my beautiful, strong Evie. I have a free morning if you need me. -E

I smile at the note; my heart flutters and I forget about Walt, Dad, all of it. In my peripheral I see Babe's eyes glance up from her phone for a moment, although she doesn't say anything. I fold up the paper like it's nothing, tuck it back into my locker, and ask,

"Babe, did your mum say anything? About what they talked about?"

If she's suspicious, her eyes don't give it away, although her tone's a little unconvincing,

"Just that men are full of shit."

"Ugh, a-men." Cara co-signs, applying a final coat of lip gloss before putting the sparkly tube back in her locker, next to a heart-framed picture of her and Dion.

Talking to the girls has put me in better spirits already, and my morning's about to take a turn for the better again. I send off a short message to Eric,

omw to you and in dire need of a cuddle 🥺

"Well," I exhale, launching myself off of my locker with my backfoot, "I am off to my free period. À bientôt, my loves."

"Later, bubs."

"Enjoy." Babe says, and narrows her eyes at me, but when she raises two pointed fingers at me in the universal sign for I'm watching you, I breathe out and laugh as I head to the English block. Phew.

————-　♡　————-

"...And it's like, I just feel so bad that I can't do anything to make it better. I'm grateful that Lisa and Bea came over to help, and she seems a little better, but what if there's a next time? I wanna be able to help her. Or better yet I wish Da-" I cut myself off before I say something I don't mean.

We've been sat in his office for at least a half hour, and it feels like opening up to him some more might have been exactly what I needed. He looks at things so calmly, so kind-heartedly, that I couldn't stay mopey even if I wanted to.

I'm used to us having these conversations on Thursday afternoons, with my head on his lap and sunshine streaming through the glass hatch to the rooftop, but I suppose being on opposite sides of a desk in a windowless office works, too.

When the 'D' word crops up and I stop short, he wears the same expression Cara wore, except when he does it, I want to kiss him. I've mentioned my dad to him once or twice, with either a quivering or stone-cold voice, but I don't like what talking about disappointment does to our atmosphere, so I try to steer of any talk of the man.

He sits back in his chair, and stretches his arms out,

"Come here, Evie."

I roll my eyes to hide the smile I can't suppress as I walk around the table to sit on his knee.

"Relax," he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead, and almost instantly I melt into his side. It feels so good to just... stop, and be able to rest your head on someone's shoulder, with their arm wrapped around your waist and soothing voice whispering,

"You're okay," he strokes a single finger up and down my arm, "every thing and everyone you love is going to be okay. I'm certain of it."

Rationally, I know he can't know it with any more certainty than I do, but it still feels better to hear it in his husky, lilting voice.

I sit up, slowly, with my hands on his chest to steady myself, and look at him. My Eric. He's boyishly beautiful when he lets his emotions show. It's rare, admittedly, but right now, with concern painted across his features, I can see it clear as day in the scrunching between his thick dark blonde brows. He's chewing at his pink lower lip, and I can see stubble I love so much. With my thumb, I draw his lip back out,

"Don't bite them. That's my job," I smile proudly. He laughs softly, letting out the breath he was holding.

"Are you okay, my love? Do you want to go home?"

God, he's the sweetest. I push a mousy tendril from his face and take a deep breath,

"No... I think I'm good," I smile, running the tip of my pinkie across his slightly chapped bottom lip, asking a silent question.

"Evie..."

"Mhm?"

"Is there something you wanted?" Ugh, he's going to make me say it, isn't he?

"Mhm..."

"And what might that be?"

"I'd like a kiss, please."

"Yes, ma'am." And at that he peppers me in them, making me giggle as he presses his lips all over my cheeks as though he's marking out my freckles.

Suddenly, his copper doorknob starts twisting and shaking, and although his first instinct upon hearing the sudden noise is to pull me close by my waist, I jump up. It's like in that moment I expected everything to come crashing down, right there and then, but the knob keeps on shaking and swivelling, and I take the opportunity to scurry back to the seat on the other side of his desk.

Eric hurries to the door, his long legs propelling him with leaps, and throws it open,

"Sophie!" Oh, it's just Miss Church. His chest is heaving with the adrenaline, although I'm not sure she notices,

"Everything alright? I'm just," he motions to me, sat innocently with papers in hand that I grabbed from his desk," just going through a paper with a student."

"Hi, Miss."

"Oh, sorry, Evangeline! I just need to pinch Mr. Macklin for a mo," she looks from me to Eric with an awkward pleading smile,

"I've just got a call about an appointment I've been waiting absolutely ages for, and I've got to call back now now to secure it." She bends her knees slightly and presses her hands together for the final ask,

"Can you watch my class for the last 15 mins? Just down there, 2.13."

He lets out a laugh that sounds like that's no problem with a hint of good God am I happy that's all you're asking,

" 'Course! Go – go make your call, I've got it."

She mouths a dramatic 'thank you' before turning so fast that her ponytail whips in Eric's face. I smirk at him with hot cheeks when he turns to me to let out a heavy exhale, still leaning on the faulty doorknob, laughing,

"Jesus Christ. Go on, minx, get out of here before there's any more trouble."

"Yes, sir." I beam as I walk through the open door.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The heavy wooden door was ajar, but, against his better judgement, Eric knocked to announce his entrance. Sometimes it felt as though he was still adjusting to the whole 'authority figure' thing.

"Mag-lin's here!"

"Hi-iii, sir."

"Mr Macklin! Y'alright, sir?"

"Yeah, yeah, Miss Church had to step out for a bit, so I'm here to mind you, until," he swivelled to check the clock on the wall, "lunch, I suppose."

He bit the insides of his cheek to stop a smirk from spreading in response to the resounding cheers that arose and thought about his own time in sixth form. How very circle-of-life it was that even now, stood at the front of the classroom, instead of sat at the back, popularity was still of such importance.

"Got any half-term plans, sir?"

"Umm," he squinted and thought first of what a real teacher would say, "do you? What's everyone up to over the break?"

The class was by and large split into bright scholarship kids spending the half-term holiday in London, and bratty trust fund kids spending it anywhere but. Eric knew the kind – he'd been one not too many years ago.

"Getting dragged to St. Barths, sir."

"Probably just stayin' here, sir."

"Aspen, again."

"Might go rollerbladin', sir!"

"Lake Como, probs."

"I'm readin' all of Proust, sir."

"Wallace, you are aware that half-term break is a week-long, yes?"

"I'm a man of ambition, sir."

"You can't appreciate Proust in central London, Wallace. I'm yachting to Paris – the home of Proust." The girl's eyes shone, proud both of her knowledge and her (father's) money. She'd been one of the few to make a poorly-masked seduction attempt on Eric when he first arrived, murmuring about doing anything for a bump in her grade, despite the fact that Eric didn't give grades, he only went through corrections, tutored, recommended books, that sort of thing. Her incessant and awkward leg-crossing gave him the impression that she'd spent too long watching Basic Instinct and not long enough studying.

"Oh, cheers for th'tip, Helena," Wallace's Scottish accent rang, "I'll hop on th'jet when I get th'chance, aye?" Eric wanted to roll his eyes, but luckily Wallace did it for him. It was part of the whole teacher thing that he couldn't take sides, or say when he thought a kid was being an arsehole, but by God some of them were. They strutted about, bathed in the nasty stench of arrogant, affluent youth – like they deserved more just because they already had more.

"What about you, sir? What you doin'?"

"I've, uh, got my birthday coming up." Eric admitted, with the awkward reluctance expected of teachers. He'd never quite understood it. At 18 and 19, they were old enough and smart enough to know that teachers had lives beyond assemblies and assessments.

"Ah, happy birthday, sir!"

"Happy birthday, Mag-lin!"

"You gonna spend it with your bird, sir?"
"Ah yeah, the fit blonde one!"

"O-kay," Eric laughed, trying to reign things in upon feeling the faintest sweat bead form, "let's change the- what are you guys reading right now?" He began clicking about on the desktop in search of resources, or at least something to talk about that didn't invite any mention of his 'bird'.

When shouts of Romeo and Juliet! came, he sighed in relief.

"Ah, alright, classic! I ... have got something to show you, in that case." He said, switching on the projector. If he could find it, he'd show them a clip from the performance he'd seen at Covent Garden last winter - MacMillan's Romeo and Juliet. It had been a night he'd never forget - as he left the opera house, in awe and good spirits and good company, a viscous spattering of seagull shit had ruined his hair... Perhaps the night's special place in his memory was more attributable to Evie's presence. It was the night he'd asked her to be his.

"What's this, sir?"

As he opened his mouth to answer, prepared to gush about the wonders of Natalia Osipova's pirouettes and pas de bourrés, another, bolder, voice came from the entrance behind him,

"Yeah, Mr. Macklin, what's this?"

Scott Kellerman walked in as though lost, with his eyes glued to the display on the projector as he wandered about the room.

Eric's jaw clenched involuntarily. In spite of what he'd done, Eric hadn't made a conscious decision to dislike Scott – that wasn't allowed – but Scott Kellerman fell into the 'self-important and stinking rich' category. His arrogance wasn't quite overt. He often came across as harmlessly smug, but in a recent development, although it might have just been in Eric's mind, his eyes had become cocky and challenging, his words precise and just accusatory enough to make Eric testy. I know something about you, sir...

"Scott," Eric pulled a face that he hoped would read as blameless confusion, "did you need something?"

Scott looked up from his book-bag with his own expression of confusion. Eric saw through it the way that Scott had likely seen through his. Then, he raised his eyebrows as if Eric had implied something, and he'd finally caught the gist.

"Oh! I'm crashing your class."

Eric resisted the urge to scoff at his answer, and outright laugh at the boy's lofty demeanour.

"Okay. For future reference, it's nice to ask beforehand." Eric said, turning to shuffle through papers on the desk. In truth, he didn't know what he was rifling through at all, but to leave Scott with the reminder and move on gave him a childish kick.

"Okay," came Scott's reply, plainly, "can I please crash?" At the sound of the giggles and guffaws he wanted, Scott smirked, his characteristic smugness returned. Eric motioned to an empty spot in the 4th row.

Turning his attention back to the desktop, he tutted. In all his petty distraction, he'd pressed on an ad that had popped up mid-video.

"Thing is, sir," Scott went on, holding the class' attention with his refined accent and newly-deepened voice,

"I missed my class earlier. Wouldn't wanna fall behind on precious knowledge, you see, sir." Scott widened his eyes in faux sincerity, and those who caught his insincerity laughed again, fuelling his self-satisfaction.

Having found his way back to the Romeo and Juliet clip, Eric turned up the volume, not so much that his impatience was clear, but just enough to turn everyone's attention back to the screen.

With less than 10 minutes left until lunch, Eric doubted very much that Scott had 'crashed' the class for anything other than his own amusement. It was trivial, but the constant 'sir' and fake deference didn't sit well with him – at all.

He was a real performer, Scott. Or perhaps just a boy who knew he had a good chunk of the whole package - good looks, humour, charm - and was determined that everybody would be aware of it at every second.

Dropping his bookbag dramatically and speaking too loudly for it to be the whisper he was feigning, Scott folded his arms, turned to the girl on his left and pointed at the screen,

"What's all this, then?"

Clearly of the studious variety, the girl cast a quick glance at Eric before holding the thin book up to Scott.

"Ah, a bit of R and J, okay, okay," he nodded, fishing his tattered copy out of his bag. "You know..." he said, leaning into her, and the starstruck girl couldn't help but tilt in too,

"Juliet was actually 13, and Romeo was 18. 5 year gap? Bit weird, if you ask me." He said, pulling an exaggerated grimace.

Eric had turned his back, trying his best to focus on the ballet, he loved this ballet! But he could hear what was going on behind him. He could feel Scott's stupid smirk, and it was hard to stay turned away in ignorance when the shouts came,

"No way, sir, is that true?"

"Sir, was she actually 13?"

"You're lying – Mr. Macklin, isn't he lying?"

He turned around innocently, as though he'd just tuned in to their questions,

"Hm?"

As if Heaven-sent, Miss Church re-entered, just as the lunch bell rang.

"I- well, okay, have a good lunch, guys!" She joked, although beyond the odd bye Miss, bye Mag-lin!,  nobody in the stampede of hungry Year 13s stopped to humour her.

"I hope they didn't give you any trouble, Eric..." she smiled with a hand his forearm. He reached out to turn off monitor, and get rid of her wandering hand without causing any offence. That would be the last thing he wanted to do.

"Oh, no no," he laughed, "none at all."