The old security guard always peeled oranges with his pocketknife. Slow, careful slices, sending little bursts of citrus into the air until his sleeves smelled sharp and sweet. He never ate the oranges. Just left the peels in neat spirals on the counter, like odd little sculptures nobody asked for.
Sarah always caught the scent first. It hit her as soon as she shoved open the heavy doors—bright and sharp, cutting right through the old mix of coffee and bleach hanging in the halls. But today, something felt off. The guard wasn't alone.
"Still lining up your pens like soldiers, huh?" The guard's voice scratched the air, familiar as always. Then, after a beat, another voice—one she hadn't heard in three years: "They work better that way."
Her grip tightened around her books. She knew that dry, matter-of-fact tone, with just the tiniest hint of a smile hidden underneath. Ethan. The name twisted in her chest before she could block it.
Suddenly, the hallway felt too long. The linoleum shone too much under the buzzing lights. She made herself keep walking, boots dragging just enough to let them know she was there. The guard looked up, wiping sticky fingers on his pants. "Morning, Ms. Carter." Ethan didn't turn.
She nodded at the guard, barely glancing at the man beside him. His shoulders, the new short haircut, the pale strip of skin at his collar—her throat went tight. She'd kissed him there once, in his car during a thunderstorm. Rain pounding overhead, his hands steady, her heart rattling.
The guard reached for another orange. "Staff meeting's in five."
"I know," she blurted. Ethan shifted, just a little, his sleeve brushing the counter. The sound of fabric on laminate was louder than anything else in the room.
She walked away before she could see his face. The books pressed hard against her ribs. She clung to the ache—easier than everything else.
...
The faculty room buzzed. People talked over each other, papers shuffled around, mugs knocked together. Somebody laughed way too loud at a joke that wasn't even funny. The whole place smelled like printer toner and soup reheated one too many times. Sarah paused at the doorway, her eyes searching for a place to sit. Of course—just one open chair, right across from Ethan. He was already lining up his pens, forehead creased like always. She hesitated, just a heartbeat, then slid into the seat. The chair legs screeched. Heads turned. Ethan didn't bother.
She dropped her books on the table, not gently, letting one flop open to a page she'd bent and read a hundred times. The spine cracked. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Ethan's jaw clench. That tiny twitch—it made something spark inside her, mean and electric. She used to fuss over his books, smoothing out the creases he made with those restless hands. Now she bent the corner of another page, almost hoping he'd say something.
The principal cleared her throat, and the meeting started. Sarah doodled in her notebook, her handwriting slanting off at sharp angles. Across from her, Ethan wrote in those perfect, neat lines. She remembered how he'd once written her name that way—slow and careful, almost reverent. Now he filled his page with bullet points, everything measured out, nothing left to chance.
Someone brought up the spring curriculum. Sarah looked up, and right then, Ethan glanced at her. They locked eyes—nothing friendly, nothing familiar, just that cold, professional stare. His gaze dropped to her battered book, then back to her face. She couldn't read him. She raised her chin, almost daring him to say something. He didn't. He just turned back to his notes and drew a hard, straight line under one bullet point. The pen ripped the paper.
The principal kept talking. The lights buzzed overhead. And Sarah sat there, realizing the worst part wasn't the anger or the ache—it was how her body still remembered the sound of his breathing, how her fingers still wanted to reach out and fix the mess he made of his pens.
...
One of the teachers next to her burst out laughing—too loud, way too close. Sarah jerked back. Ethan didn't even blink. He just kept writing, pressing his pen so hard she could see the dent on the next page. Was he thinking about that time she'd chucked his favorite pen out the window during an argument? The way he'd clammed up, didn't say a word, just stalked out to the bushes and spent almost an hour picking through leaves until he found it.
The meeting dragged on. Budget cuts. More standardized tests. Sarah started doodling a spiral in the corner of her notes, then kept shading it until she'd nearly torn through the paper. She glanced up, and there was Ethan, staring straight at her hands—not her face, just her thumb, spinning the silver ring she'd started wearing after the breakup. His nostrils flared. She recognized that look. He was running numbers in his head, coming to some kind of conclusion.
Suddenly, Ethan reached across the table and pulled her textbook over to him. Everything in the room seemed to freeze. Sarah's heart hammered as he carefully smoothed out the dog-eared page she'd scribbled on earlier. His fingers hovered on the crease, just a second longer than necessary.
He pushed the book back. Their hands nearly touched. She jerked hers away fast, like she'd been shocked. Ethan let out a little huff through his nose—the closest he ever got to a laugh.
The principal called it: "meeting over." Chairs scraped the floor. Someone spilled their coffee. Sarah stood up too fast and smacked her knees against the table. Ethan didn't even budge. He just watched as she scrambled to collect her battered book, loose papers, whatever was left of her pride.
Right as she started to leave, she heard it—the soft, purposeful snap of his pen cap. She knew exactly what that meant: he'd made up his mind about something. She didn't turn around. Didn't have to. Some stories, you're better off not rereading. Some endings are best left alone.
Still, her hands were shaking when she shoved through the door. The hallway smelled like oranges.
...
Sarah turned the corner too quick, slammed her shoulder into a locker. It rang out behind her, sharp and loud. Three years. Three whole years, and Ethan still folded his napkins into neat little squares while she chewed hers to shreds. She squeezed her bag strap until her hand ached. Footsteps behind her—steady, familiar.
"Sarah."
His voice hadn't changed. Still calm, slow, like nothing ever rattled him. She spun. Ethan stood half a step too close, tie crooked—her fingers itched, remembering how she used to fix it. His sleeve was pushed up, showing that thin scar from the time she dropped hot tea on him in their cramped grad school apartment. He'd just sighed, wiped it up, told her not to worry.
She swallowed hard. "Don't."
"Don't what?" His eyes dropped to her thumb, noticed the red mark where her ring used to be.
A student wandered by, headphones on, completely checked out. The bell blasted overhead, sharp and sudden. Sarah jumped. Ethan didn't even blink. He never did. She used to set off fire alarms just to see if he'd react. He never did.
"You folded the page," she said.
"You creased it."
"Same book."
"Different chapter."
The double doors at the end of the hall crashed open. A bunch of juniors poured out, laughing too loud. Sarah stepped back, but Ethan just moved with her, closing off her escape the way he always did during their old public fights—close enough to make her heart pound, but not so close anyone else would notice.
One of the kids glanced over. Sarah faked a smile. Ethan didn't bother. He just watched her, waiting.
She knew how this went. He always won the quiet standoffs.
The students disappeared. The hallway went quiet.
Ethan reached into his jacket and pulled out a pen—the same kind she'd once chucked out the window, the cap still dented. He held it out, balanced in his palm, like he couldn't decide if he was offering it or daring her to take it.
Sarah stared. There was a fresh ink stain on his thumb. She could smell it, sharp and chemical.
Somewhere, water dripped.
She took the pen.
Ethan's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "See you at the department meeting."
Then he turned and left, and Sarah stood there clutching his stupid pen, realizing she'd already started rereading.
...
Sarah didn't move until his footsteps faded away. When she finally let go of the pen, she noticed the marks it left in her palm—deep grooves, almost like bite marks. She shoved it into her bag, where it rattled against her keys. The noise felt way too loud in the empty hallway.
She should've thrown it again. Just picked it up and chucked it down the corridor like a spear. But she didn't. Instead, her thumb found the dent in the cap, tracing the spot she'd made three years ago—the night she screamed, "you care more about your fucking pens than me," and hurled it out into the rain.
In the faculty bathroom, the mirror caught her red cheeks and the white line on her bottom lip from biting it too hard. She splashed water on her face and watched the drops race down the glass. Pathetic, she told herself. But her mind wouldn't let go; it tossed up Ethan grabbing her wrist after that fight, his hand steady but gentle, his voice rough—"You don't get to decide what I care about."
Her phone buzzed. Department group chat—someone tagged her about grading rubrics. Right below that, a new number showed up: Ethan Cole, no profile picture. Her thumb hovered over the notification. They hadn't messaged since the breakup. He probably got her number from the staff directory.
His message was just one line: "You kept the ring."
Sarah stared at the screen until it went dark. Out in the hallway, the bell rang for second period, and she heard students shuffling past, backpacks banging into the walls. Slowly, she typed back:
"You kept the pen."
Three dots blinked. Disappeared. Came back.
"Different reasons," he replied.
She sucked in a sharp breath. The faucet dripped. Somewhere, a locker slammed shut.
Sarah turned off her phone.
...
The screen went dark, and suddenly her own eyes stared back at her—caught in the act, almost. The faculty bathroom felt way too bright, the buzz from those old lights pressing in. She jammed her phone deep into her pocket, like that could erase the words still burning behind her eyes. Different reasons. Really? What was that even supposed to mean?
She pushed out the door just as a knot of freshmen barreled past, their laughter too much—loud and sharp. The hallway smelled like chalk dust and, of course, Ethan's oranges. She turned toward the English wing and stopped short. There he was, propped against the water fountain, spinning that same pen around his fingers like he was born doing it. Watching her. Waiting.
Sarah pulled her shoulders back and walked right past him, not missing a beat.
"You forgot your book." His voice was maddening—calm, steady.
She glanced down. The battered novel she'd left behind sat tucked under his arm, the spine somehow straightened out. Of course he'd noticed. Of course he'd bothered. Ethan missed nothing—the way she bounced her foot when she got anxious, the exact lipstick she picked when things felt rough, the worn silver ring she still wore from their first anniversary.
"I don't need it," she lied.
Ethan looked at her empty hands. "Liar."
A student shuffled by, coughed, eyes darting between them. Sarah forced a smile and waited until he disappeared. "What do you want, Ethan?"
He pushed off the wall and moved closer—close enough that she could see the stubble on his jaw, the slightly crooked tie. "You took the pen."
"That doesn't mean anything."
"It means something." His voice dropped. "You don't take things you don't want."
Sarah's throat went tight. She flashed back to that last time—outside her place in the rain, his hands locked on her waist while she screamed for him to go, and he just stood there, waiting, until she finally whispered, please.
The bell rang. The hallway cleared out.
...
Ethan held out the book. When Sarah took it, their fingers brushed. This time, neither of them pulled back. The touch lasted just a heartbeat, but it was enough. She felt the rough spot on his index finger—too many essays graded—his skin warm against hers. Her throat tightened. She had to swallow hard.
"I'm not doing this again," she said, except her voice broke right at the end.
Ethan tilted his head, studying her like she was a line of text he couldn't quite decode. "Doing what?"
"This." She waved the book between them, pages flapping. "The back and forth. The... all the silence."
He sucked in a breath through his nose. She'd forgotten he did that—his little warning sign. For three years, she told herself she'd forgotten everything.
A door slammed somewhere down the hall. Sarah flinched. Ethan didn't. He just kept looking at her with that expression—the one that used to make her crazy because she never knew if he was angry, or heartbroken, or just lost in thought.
She gripped the book tighter. "Say something."
"I did." He tapped his pen, the one stuck in his shirt pocket. She remembered that, too—he always did it when he was picking his words. "You weren't listening."
Sarah started to snap back, but the late bell drowned her out. The sound filled the hallway, sharp and final. They both stood there, caught in the moment, until the bell stopped ringing.
Ethan let out a long breath. "Department meeting. Thursday."
She nodded, stiff. He turned away, hesitated, and glanced back. "The pen was never the point."
Then he was gone. His footsteps echoed down the linoleum and faded into the noise of the building. Sarah stared at the empty space, her fingers brushing the spine of the book he'd handed back. It was still warm where he'd held it.
She pressed the novel to her chest and drew in a shaky breath. The smell of paper, ink, and his bergamot soap filled her lungs. Three years gone, and she still knew his scent better than her own.
A door clicked shut somewhere in the distance. Sarah blinked, pulled herself together, swung her bag over her shoulder, and headed down the hall toward her next class. Her pulse thudded in her throat. Her skin still tingled where his fingers had touched hers.
...
The book in her arms felt like it weighed a ton. She hugged it close as she walked in, the classroom noise dying off the second she crossed the threshold. She slammed the book down harder than she meant to. A freshman in the front row jumped.
"Page forty-two," she said, skipping the pleasantries. She flipped her copy open to the dog-eared spot. Her hands stayed steady, thank God. "Who can tell me why Fitzgerald uses the color green here?"
A hand shot up. Sarah nodded, not really seeing the eager sophomore. Her mind spun—the pen was never the point. So, what was? The way he'd looked at her—neither angry nor smug. More like she was some puzzle he'd tucked away ages ago, only to find again, unfinished.
The door creaked open. She didn't bother to look up. "Late passes on the desk."
Silence. Then a voice she knew too well: "Not a student."
Her head jerked up. Ethan stood in the doorway, a stack of papers in hand. His tie was straight now. Funny, that's what she noticed first.
"Department head asked me to drop these off." He held the papers out, everything aligned, fingers squared to the edges. "Revised syllabi."
Sarah took them, automatic. This time, their hands didn't even come close. He'd made sure of it.
"Thanks," she said, her voice stiff.
He hesitated, just for a split second, glancing at the book on her desk—the one he'd once smoothed the pages of. Then he turned to go.
"Mr. Cole!" a junior called from the back. "Did you know Ms. Carter throws books when she's mad?"
Ethan paused, hand on the doorframe. Without turning, he said, "She has good aim."
The class burst out laughing. Sarah's cheeks went hot. She remembered—clear as day—hurling a paperback at him during a fight about postmodernism. He'd caught it one-handed and said nice throw like it was something to be proud of.
The door clicked shut. Sarah let out a breath.
"Page forty-two," she said again, louder. The room quieted down. Someone whispered, what was that about; another shushed them.
She stared at the line about green light and far-off dreams, the words swimming. Outside, a groundskeeper rolled a wheelbarrow of oranges past, and the sharp scent cut right through the classroom.
Sarah gripped the edge of her desk. The pen in her bag seemed to burn through the fabric, pressing straight into her chest.
Different reasons, he'd said.
Sarah Carter hated riddles with no answers. She hated them more when they wore crisp Oxford shirts and smelled like bergamot. The pen. The book. The fucking oranges. Every glance from Ethan felt like another line of code in a cipher she couldn't crack.
...
The bell rang. Her students shot out the door like startled deer. Sarah dropped into her chair, pressing her palms to her eyes until colors danced behind her eyelids. The revised syllabi Ethan brought in sat untouched. Didn't matter—she already knew what was in them. Same curriculum, just a new font. Kind of like everyone here. Same stories, new setting.
Her phone buzzed. New email. Subject line: Shared Classroom?
Her stomach twisted. That official tone—she recognized it instantly. The principal's assistant, with Ethan CC'd. "Due to HVAC repairs in the east wing..."
She skimmed. Shared classroom. Temporary. Her and Hale. Mondays and Thursdays.
She let out a slow breath. The room felt suddenly too small.
A knock at the door.
She didn't even have to look up. Two sharp knocks, pause, then one more. She'd know that pattern anywhere.
"Come in."
Ethan walked in, hands jammed in his pockets. Sleeves rolled up again, fresh ink smudges on his arms.
"You saw the email."
Wasn't really a question.
Sarah twisted her silver ring. "We could say no."
"We could." He leaned against the chalkboard, leaving a faint trail of white dust on his sleeve. Didn't bother wiping it off.
A janitor's cart squeaked by in the hall. The tang of cleaner and citrus drifted in—someone must've spilled juice again.
Ethan noticed her thumb fidgeting with the ring. "Still nervous."
"Still observant."
He almost smiled. "Sharing a classroom doesn't mean sharing desks."
"That's not—" She bit her lip. "You know that's not what I'm worried about."
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Somewhere, a locker slammed.
Ethan pushed off the board, chalk dust clinging to his shirt. "We're adults."
"That's never stopped us before."
He froze for a second, shoulders tightening just a bit.
Sarah stood up fast, chair scraping the floor. "I'll take mornings."
Ethan nodded. "I'll take afternoons."
They stood there, empty desks between them.
A pen rolled off Sarah's desk and hit the floor. Ethan glanced at it—the same kind he'd given her, cap bent from her grip.
Neither of them picked it up.
The late bell sounded.
Ethan turned to go.
Sarah blurted, "Different reasons for what?"
He stopped, didn't turn around.
"Why you kept the pen," she said, though they both knew.
The door creaked open.
"Same reason you kept the ring," he said, and walked out.
Sarah stared at the pen on the floor. The answer hung in the air—louder than any bell.
She left it where it was.
For now.
.
.
.
.
.
To be continued.