DARK CHEMISTRY
The classroom emptied slowly after the test results were announced. Chairs scraped, footsteps faded, voices dissolved into the hallway… until finally, only one remained.
Lizzie.
She stood near her desk, fingers gripping the edge so tightly her knuckles paled. Her breathing was soft but shaky. Every second that passed made the fear twist deeper in her stomach.
She kept replaying the number in her head.
22. Two marks short. Two marks too low.
And the word punishment echoed with each heartbeat.
She stared down at the floor, trying not to cry.
Behind her, the door clicked shut.
Lizzie flinched.
Daniel was still there… leaning against his desk at the front, arms crossed, watching her with unreadable eyes. The sunlight slanted across him, outlining his tattoos, the dark ink contrasting with the pale light. His presence filled the empty room.
"Lizzie," he said slowly.
Her shoulders tensed. "Y-yes… s—"
She stopped herself.
His earlier words flashed in her mind.
Don't call me 'sir' when we're alone.
"Yes… Daniel…" she whispered.
A flicker of satisfaction passed through his eyes.
"Come here."
Her legs felt like jelly, but she walked toward him, stopping a few feet away. She couldn't look him in the eye; her gaze stayed fixed on the hem of his black shirt.
He didn't speak for a moment. He simply watched her—watched the fear, the trembling, the guilt—every emotion scribbled across her face like notes in the margin of her life.
"Do you know why you're being punished?" he asked softly.
She swallowed hard. "Because… I scored below 24."
"No." His voice dropped lower. "Because you were scared to ask me for help. Because you thought I'd shout at you. Because you worked alone when I told you you didn't have to."
Her eyes widened slightly.
He continued, "You're not supposed to face everything alone, Lizzie."
A pause.
Then, Daniel reached forward — slowly, deliberately — and placed one finger under her chin, lifting her gaze to his.
"I don't punish for marks," he murmured. "I punish for habits that hurt you."
Her heartbeat skidded painfully.
"Wh-what… what's my punishment then?" she whispered.
Daniel dropped his hand, turned, and picked up her test paper from his desk. He tapped it lightly.
"You're going to redo the entire paper now."
Lizzie blinked. "N-now?"
"Now. With me. Until you get every answer right."
Her breath left her in a shaky exhale. That wasn't what she expected. She had imagined shouting, detention, humiliation — anything but this.
"This is your punishment," he said, voice calm. "You'll sit with me, one-on-one, no skipping steps, no running away."
Her cheeks burned. "I… I can do that."
"I know you can."
There was pride hidden in his tone.
He sat on the chair beside his desk and motioned to the empty one next to him. Lizzie sat slowly, heart racing at the closeness. She could smell his cologne — something dark, woodsy, addictive.
Daniel leaned slightly closer, his voice brushing against her ear.
"And Lizzie?"
She turned to him, breath catching.
"Next time… don't be afraid. I'm not here to break you."
His eyes held hers, deep, steady, unmovable.
"I'm here to build you."
Lizzie didn't know what to say. She only nodded, feeling warmth bloom somewhere in her chest — confusing, overwhelming, but undeniably there.
"Good."
He smirked slightly, picking up a pen.
"Now show me where you went wrong."
And as she began rewriting her answers, Daniel stayed close — correcting her hand positions, guiding her calmly, watching her progress with a strange, silent intensity.
It wasn't a punishment of pain or harshness.
It was a punishment of attention.
Of closeness.
Of being forced to trust him.
And for Lizzie… that was somehow scarier.
And somehow… safer.
Their quiet secret grew deeper that day — inked softly between wrong answers, trembling breaths, and the dark eyes of a teacher who was slowly becoming something much more.
Lizzie tried hard to focus on the paper in front of her, but her hands kept trembling. Every time she wrote a number, the pencil shook and she had to erase it. Again. And again. And again.
Daniel noticed immediately.
He didn't say anything at first. He just watched her — the way her shoulders rose and fell too quickly, the way her breath hitched, the way her fingers tightened until her knuckles turned pale.
When she made her fourth mistake on the same question, Lizzie froze.
Her vision blurred.
She blinked fast, hoping Daniel didn't notice.
But he did.
His voice softened.
"Lizzie."
She shook her head quickly, wiping her eyes with the back of her sleeve.
"I-I'm sorry… I don't know why I'm… I can't think properly—"
Her voice broke.
The sound sliced through him.
He reached out, placed a warm hand over hers, stopping her from scribbling another shaky answer.
"Lizzie… look at me."
She didn't. Couldn't.
Her tears slipped down despite trying so hard to hold them back.
Daniel gently turned her wrist, thumb brushing over her trembling fingers.
"You're not in trouble," he said quietly.
She sniffed, lowering her head.
"I messed everything up. I always do…"
"No."
His tone sharpened — not in anger, but in fierce disagreement.
"You don't always do anything. You're trying. That matters more to me than a score."
Her breath caught at more to me.
She looked down at the paper, embarrassed.
"I just… got scared."
"I know."
He pulled her pencil from her fingers and set it down.
Then — to her shock — he tipped her chin up with two fingers, gently but firmly, making her meet his eyes.
"Never hide your tears from me," he murmured.
It wasn't a command.
It wasn't a request.
It was… care. Pure, unexpected, disarming care.
Lizzie felt her chest twist.
"I… I didn't want you to think I'm weak."
Daniel leaned a little closer.
His voice dropped low, warm enough to melt her panic.
"Being scared doesn't make you weak."
A beat.
"Running away does. And you didn't run."
Her lips parted slightly.
She had never heard someone say that to her — not a teacher, not a classmate, not even at home.
Daniel continued, his gaze steady and protective:
"Besides…"
His thumb brushed the corner of her tear-wet cheek.
"I'd never punish you for not understanding something. That's what I'm here for."
Lizzie's tears stopped — replaced with a soft, fragile silence.
"Take a breath," he whispered.
She inhaled shakily.
"Again."
She did. This time slower.
Daniel let his hand rest lightly on her back — not too close, not too strong — just enough for her to feel grounded. Safe.
Her heartbeat slowed.
After a few moments, he spoke again, voice warm with a rare gentleness:
"Better?"
Lizzie nodded, wiping her cheeks, her breathing steadier now.
Daniel picked the pencil back up and placed it in her hand — but this time, he kept his fingers lightly over hers, guiding her movements across the page.
"We'll do this together," he said quietly.
"No more fear. Not when I'm here."
His words wrapped around her like a protective shield — firm, steady, and strangely comforting.
And in that quiet, sunlight-filled classroom, with her hand guided by his, Lizzie felt something new:
Not just safety.
But trust.
And the beginning of something she didn't dare name yet — something warm, dangerous, and impossible to forget.