I tried to shake it off. I really did.
The next morning, I stood in front of the mirror, brushing my curls for the third time, and cursed myself for thinking about Mr. Michaels at all. It was just a strange coincidence. One odd afternoon. No reason for my stomach to flutter every time I remembered the way he'd said my name.
But then I got to school, and guess who was waiting at my locker?
"You're late," Daniel said, tapping his phone like he had somewhere better to be. "Did your flat iron explode again?"
"I wasn't late," I said, ignoring his insult and opening my locker. "And no, I don't need a flat iron. It's called natural volume. You should try having a personality with it."
His eyes narrowed. "Someone's feisty today."
I didn't even bother responding. I had learned that giving Daniel attention was like feeding a stray cat—it never left.
But today was different. Not because of him, but because I couldn't stop seeing him in Daniel.
Mr. Michaels.
Same eyes. Same jawline, now that I really looked. But that was where the similarities ended. Where Daniel was sharp and reckless, his dad was… calm. Collected. Curious. And he listened—really listened. Like you were the only person in the room.
Which is probably why I nearly dropped my books when Daniel said, "So, what'd you talk about with my dad yesterday?"
I stared at him. "Excuse me?"
"In detention," he said casually, sliding his phone into his back pocket. "He said you two had a whole chat."
My mouth opened, then closed. "How do you even know that?"
"I live with him. He talks. I listen. Barely."
My chest tightened. "Well, nothing important. We sat in silence. You know. The usual."
Daniel tilted his head, eyes glinting like he knew I was lying. "Huh. He said you were 'sharp.' That you reminded him of someone."
I swallowed hard. "And?"
"And nothing. He seemed… impressed."
The bell rang before I had to come up with a response, and I practically sprinted to my next class.
But Daniel's words echoed through my mind the entire day.
Impressed.
Reminded him of someone.
You were sharp.
I didn't want to care what Mr. Michaels thought of me. I didn't want to analyze every sentence, replay every glance. But my brain refused to cooperate.
---
The week passed in a blur of half-hearted homework, occasional Daniel-induced eye rolls, and way too much time wondering if I'd run into his dad again.
And then I did.
At the grocery store, of all places.
I was dragging a cart through the produce aisle, earbuds in, trying to find the least-wilted lettuce, when I heard someone say, "Still winning the war against Daniel?"
I turned, heart skipping, and there he was—Mr. Michaels—pushing a basket of his own, looking like a magazine dad who'd just stepped off a Home Depot commercial. His sleeves were rolled again. Why did he always look effortlessly cool?
I laughed despite myself. "Trying. It's a full-time job."
"I believe it," he said, picking out apples. "He's always had a special talent for pushing buttons."
"Yeah, he must've inherited that from someone," I joked, then instantly regretted it. "Sorry. That was rude."
But Mr. Michaels just chuckled. "No, it's true. I was worse at his age."
I raised an eyebrow. "Hard to imagine that."
He looked at me, and his smile faded into something softer. "People change when they're forced to grow up fast."
I blinked. The atmosphere between us shifted instantly—lighter and heavier at the same time. There was something in the way he said it, a weight I couldn't name.
I cleared my throat. "So, you just out here grocery shopping like the rest of us peasants?"
He grinned again. "Even single dads need bananas and peanut butter. Especially when their kid only eats like three things."
I hesitated before asking, "Do you guys… live alone?"
He nodded. "Since Daniel was ten."
My chest tugged unexpectedly. "That must've been hard."
"It was," he said simply. "Still is, sometimes. He puts up a front, but he's figuring it out."
I wanted to say you're both doing a better job than anyone gives you credit for, but that felt too intimate. So I just smiled instead.
"Well," I said, nudging my cart forward, "good luck with the groceries. Tell your son he still owes me an apology for the Pluto incident."
He laughed, his eyes lingering on mine for a beat too long. "Will do, Sera."
As I walked away, I could still feel his gaze on my back.
And I knew—I knew—I was in trouble.
---
By the time the following Monday rolled around, I had decided to mentally file Mr. Michaels under "mildly inappropriate crush" and move on with my life.
But of course, the universe had other plans.
"Group project time," our history teacher announced at the end of class. "Partners are assigned."
Cue the collective groans of teenagers everywhere.
"Sera Winters… Daniel Michaels."
I almost flipped my desk.
Daniel turned to me with the biggest, most obnoxious grin I'd ever seen. "Guess the universe ships us."
"Guess the universe hates me."
He leaned closer. "You're blushing."
"I'm glaring."
"You're blushing while glaring."
I sighed, long and slow, and muttered, "Maybe I should just transfer schools."
But the real kicker came that afternoon, when Daniel smirked and said, "We're working on the project at my place. My dad offered to help."
My stomach twisted.
No. No, no, no.
I couldn't go to his house. I couldn't sit in their kitchen and pretend like I wasn't seeing his dad every time I closed my eyes.
I should've said no. Should've made an excuse.
But I didn't.
Because deep down, I wanted to see him again.
And that was the beginning of everything I thought I could control—slowly unraveling.