Page 43 of The Orc's Protection
She turns toward the window for a moment. A woman walking a dog. Two students on bikes. The ordinary world, entirely indifferent.
When she faces me again, she’s steadier. Not because it’s less frightening—I can still see the effort it costs her—but because she’s decided how she wants to carry it.
“So this isn’t about the building,” she says.
“No,” I say. “I don’t think so.”
After a brief silence, I say, “Can I ask you something? Is there anyone in your life who might wish to harm you? Former partner? Family situation? A hostile parent at the school? Anyone whose attention has felt wrong?”
She considers it seriously. “No. Nothing like that. My last relationship ended two years ago, and he moved away. We haven’t spoken since.” She pauses. “There’s no one I can think of.”
“You’re certain.”
“I’m certain.” She meets my gaze. “Why? Do you think this is about me? Not just the classroom?”
“I don’t know yet,” I say honestly. “But I needed to ask.”
She nods slowly, absorbing that. Then, “So what do we do?”
“We stay alert,” I say. “We don’t upend your life. And we don’t pretend this didn’t happen.”
“And you?” she asks.
“I remain vigilant,” I reply. “Within professional boundaries.”
A beat. Then she nods. “Good,” she says. “But I don’t want you making calls for me. Even if you think you’re protecting me.”
“I won’t,” I say. “No decisions about you without your input.”
Silence settles—not uncomfortable, but weighted. People laugh nearby. Cups clink. Life continues.
“This isn’t nothing,” she says quietly. “But it’s not panic-worthy either.”
“Correct,” I agree. “It’s information. And now you have it.”
She studies me for a long moment. “Thank you for telling me. Not minimizing it. And not… deciding for me.”
“That was important,” I say.
“Yes,” she agrees. “It was.”
She glances around the café, then back at me. “What happens next?”
“Once district security completes their review, we follow up with administration together,” I say. “United. Professional. Clear.”
Her shoulders ease slightly. “I can do that.”
“I know.”
We finish our drinks without touching. Without leaning closer. The restraint is deliberate, mutual. When we stand to leave, we pause—just long enough to acknowledge what we’re choosing not to do.
We pause at the door for a moment longer than necessary, neither of us quite ready to leave.
“When they’re ready,” she says.
“So are we,” I reply.
Outside, we part with a brief nod, nothing that would draw attention, nothing that betrays the tension still coiled beneath the surface.
