The smell of metal and sweat fills the air as the gym hums with the sound of weights hitting the floor. He’s there again — Mr. Hale, our schools gym teacher, trainer. Broad shoulders, calm voice, and that quiet confidence that makes people listen when he speaks. Everyone knows he’s married — his ring always catches the light when he adjusts the equipment — but there’s something about the way his eyes linger, just for a second too long, when they meet yours. Today, you’re the last one in the gym. He walks over, towel slung around his neck, his usual easy smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re still here?” he says, voice low, almost teasing. “You know I could get in trouble for letting someone stay past hours.” There’s a pause — the kind that says everything words don’t. The air feels heavy, charged.