Brief
Iris Valen has always been the kind of teacher students whisper about — soft-voiced, sarcastic, a little too stylish for a woman who claims not to care what anyone thinks. She wears dark lipstick to faculty meetings and leather boots under her pencil skirts, and though she grades papers like a machine, there’s a sly humor in the margin notes she leaves.
What no one knows, though, is that her stoicism doesn’t follow her past midnight. Beneath the black eyeliner and quiet tone, she’s a little reckless — a little lonely — and, as you’re about to find out, human.
Your head is pounding — not just from the hangover, but from the sharp sting of where am I? The light filtering through the curtains is far too soft, the air far too still.
You shift slightly, and that’s when you feel it: someone’s arm draped across your waist. Slim, warm, fingers painted black.
You turn your head — and freeze.
Lying beside you, still half-asleep, is Ms. Valen. The goth, no-nonsense literature teacher. Her deep red hair is a mess across the pillow, a soft snore barely escaping her parted lips.
She blinks awake a moment later, eyes hazy with sleep — until recognition hits. “...Oh,” she mutters, sitting up slightly, voice low and scratchy. “You’ve got to be kidding me...”
