The Red pen

Andrews POV

By the third day at Blackwood High, I had mastered the art of disappearing.

Hood up. Earphones in. Eyes down.

I took longer routes between classes just to avoid passing Mark's classroom, which was stupid considering he was literally my teacher. But every time I saw him, my chest reacted before my brain could catch up.

And I hated that more than anything.

The rain never stopped either. Gray clouds hung permanently over town, turning school windows dull and fogged by noon. The hallways smelled like wet jackets and old textbooks. Everyone seemed louder here — laughing too hard, staring too long.

I started eating lunch in the library.

Not because I liked reading.

Because nobody bothered you there.

I sat in my usual corner near the back windows with stale vending machine coffee, trying not to think about how fast everything had gotten complicated.

But thoughts about Mark kept slipping in anyway.

His voice. That look on his face when he first saw me sitting in his classroom.

I pressed my palms hard against my eyes.

One night.That was all it was ever supposed to be.

"Mr. Calebs."

I looked up sharply.

Daniel Reyes stood across the table holding a textbook to his chest, watching me with quiet, careful eyes.

"Most people don't hide in libraries," he said, "unless they're avoiding something."

"I like quiet."

"No you don't."

Something about him irritated me instantly. Maybe because he noticed too much.

The warning bell rang before I could respond. Daniel stepped aside smoothly.

"Literature next, right?" he said. "See you around, Andrew."

Then he walked away before I could ask how he knew my schedule.

---

Advanced Literature felt colder than the rest of the school.

Rain tapped steadily against the windows. The room smelled like chalk dust and coffee.

And him.

I hated that I recognized his cologne the second I walked in.

Mark stood near the board organizing papers without looking at anyone. Professional. Composed. Like the man from that apartment had never existed outside my memories.

I took my seat at the back.

"Today's assignment," he began, his voice smooth and controlled, "focuses on reflective narrative."

He turned and wrote across the board in slow, deliberate letters.

MISTAKES AND ABSOLUTION.

My stomach twisted.

"You'll write a personal essay," he continued, "analyzing a mistake that altered your understanding of yourself. Actions have consequences. Literature exists because people spend their lives trying to understand what they regret."

The way he said *regret* made something pull tight inside my chest.

I looked away.

Mark moved between the rows as he lectured. Then he passed my desk, and his sleeve barely grazed my shoulder.

Accidental. Tiny.

But my entire body reacted like a live wire.

I sucked in a sharp breath before I could stop myself. Mark's hand tightened visibly around the clipboard he was holding. A slight tremor. Almost invisible.

Almost.

So he felt it too.

That realization made everything worse.

---

The library after school was near empty.

Rain battered softly against the tall windows. Most students stayed near the front, leaving the back shelves quiet and shadowed.

I sat cross-legged on the floor between two aisles, books scattered around me, staring at the same paragraph I hadn't read in fifteen minutes.

*Mistakes and absolution.* What a sick joke of an assignment.

Footsteps echoed nearby.

Then the faint scent of cedarwood and coffee drifted through the aisle, and my pulse stumbled before I even looked up.

Mark stood at the end of the shelf.

Not Professor Shawn.

Just him.

The silence between us felt too close.

"You've been avoiding me," he said quietly.

"No shit."

His jaw tightened. He glanced once toward the empty aisles, then stepped carefully closer.

"We need boundaries. What happened cannot happen again."

Cold. Professional. Final.

Something ugly cracked open in my chest.

"You didn't know I was a student," I said flatly. "I get it."

"Andrew—"

"If you had known," I cut him off, voice sharper than I intended, "you never would've touched me. Right?"

Silence.

And somehow that silence hurt far more than any answer could have.

Mark looked exhausted suddenly. Not annoyed. Not disgusted. Just hollowed out and tired in a way that almost made me feel sorry for him.

"I'm trying to protect both of us," he said.

Something in me snapped.

I stood up too fast, books scattering loudly around my feet.

"Was I just a mistake you needed to absolve?" My voice cracked slightly on the last word. "Is that what the essay prompt was?"

The hurt surprised even me when I heard it out loud.

Mark's composure broke.

Only for a second.

But I saw it — guilt moving quickly across his face before he could pull the mask back up.

"Andrew—"

A loud thud echoed somewhere in the nearby shelves.

We both froze.

Then a softer sound followed. Small. Precise.

Like a camera shutter.

Mark stepped back from me immediately, his entire expression shifting in seconds. The vulnerability vanished. The walls came back up.

Professor Shawn again.

"You need stronger citations," he said loudly, voice suddenly formal and distant. "Your sources are weak."

Heart pounding, I grabbed my books.

"Right," I managed. "I'll fix it."

I walked fast toward the exit, not looking back, not breathing properly until I was out of the aisle.

Then I nearly walked straight into someone near the front desk.

Daniel Reyes.

He stood there holding papers neatly against his chest, wearing that same calm, unreadable smile.

"You seem stressed, Andrew."

I said nothing.

Daniel tilted his head slightly.

"Literature can be so intense." A small pause. "Especially with a teacher as *hands-on* as Mr. Shawn."

The words hit like ice water.

I stared at him, searching his face for something — confusion, a smirk, anything I could read. But Daniel's expression stayed perfectly smooth.

Polite.

Pleasant.

*Predatory.*

He stepped aside casually, like he hadn't just collapsed the air in my lungs.

"See you tomorrow," he said softly.

And somehow that sounded far more like a threat than a goodbye.