The hallway was too bright. Too loud. Too filled with the smell of overpriced cologne and teenage desperation.
And I, dear reader, was not ready.
Walkie-talkie in hand, staff pass swinging from my neck, and my will to live hanging by a thread, I trudged down the corridor like a man heading toward certain doom—except the monster waiting at the end wasn't some fanged creature. No. It was Bastien Chevalier, and his weapon of choice?
His smirk.
"Okay," I muttered to myself, adjusting my shirt with all the enthusiasm of a soggy piece of toast. "I can handle this. It's not that tough. Sure, he's the reason I've been having sex scene reruns in my head like it's adult Netflix—but that doesn't mean he's the father. I'm just hormonal. This is fine. Everything is fine."
Spoiler: It was not fine.
Because the moment I rounded the corner—
"KYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!""OH MY GOD, IT'S HIM! IT'S HIM!""BASTIEEEEEEEN, MARRY ME!"
The screams hit me like a tsunami of glitter, estrogen, and unfiltered chaos.
The parking area outside the school had transformed into a war zone of fangirls armed with banners, phones, and an unholy amount of mascara. Security was trying to hold the line, but even they looked like they were two screams away from abandoning their posts and joining the cult of Bastien.
My coworkers—grown-ass adults—were literally holding hands like they were forming a magical barrier of professionalism. "Protect the talent," one of them whispered like they were in a Marvel movie.
And then—
A sleek black SUV rolled in like it was auditioning for Fast & Furious: Italian Heartthrob Edition.
The door opened slowly. Dramatically. As if the vehicle itself knew who it was carrying.
Some poor guy with thick glasses and a face that screamed "I haven't slept since 2018" stepped out first—probably the manager—and then…
He appeared.
Bastien Chevalier.
Wearing a red silk shirt that looked personally stitched by the gods. Buttons criminally undone. Hair tousled in that way that said, "I woke up like this, and yes, I do smell like money and heartbreak."
His smile was lazy. Effortless. The kind of smile that could get you pregnant through eye contact.
And for one horrifying second—my cheeks heated up.
"Was he always this attractive?" I whispered like I'd just discovered gravity.
It wasn't like I hadn't seen him before. He was in movies. Billboards. Perfume ads that made you question your morality. There were entire Twitter threads dedicated to his collarbones, for god's sake.
But this? This was in person. This was proximity danger.
My walkie-talkie suddenly crackled to life, and I jumped like I'd been tasered.
"Elio, he's heading inside. You're up. Go meet him."
"Do I have to?" I whispered, eyes wide.
"YES."
"...I think my water just broke," I muttered.
"ELIO!"
I groaned, slapped my cheeks lightly, and muttered to myself, "Okay. Be cool. Be normal. You are a professional educator with a staff badge and student loans. You will not throw up or faint or cry in front of Bastien Chevalier."
Then I stepped forward.
A girl near me sobbed, "He made eye contact with me! I saw God!"
Another just dropped to her knees and screamed, "TAKE MY ENTIRE EXISTENCE, BASTIEN!"
And I—your local, underpaid, emotionally unstable teacher—walked right into the heart of the madness.
This was fine.
This was totally fine.
Armed with my walkie-talkie, fake professionalism, and the growing suspicion that I was being spiritually punished for past sins, I made my way down the hall toward the changing room Bastien was assigned. The screaming fans faded into the background, replaced by the ominous silence of celebrity territory.
I reached the door. Took a breath. Knocked once.
Nothing.
I knocked again, louder this time. Nada. Zilch. Not even a polite "just a minute" or the sound of someone putting on pants.
Rude.
"Seriously?" I muttered, glancing at my watch. "What, is he in there sacrificing a goat to stay youthful?"
I knocked harder, the way emotionally repressed men punch drywall.
Still no response.
"Unbelievable," I grumbled. "Just because you're hot and famous doesn't mean you get to treat doors like your enemies. I swear to god, if you're naked and ignoring me on purpose—"
CREAKKKK.
The door swung open.
And I, mid-rant, with my fist still raised, stumbled forward like the ghost of unpaid interns past—straight into a warm, broad chest.
I bounced off it like an overcooked spaghetti noodle hitting a marble countertop and stumbled back, flailing like a cat that fell off a windowsill.
"Oof—SORRY!" I blurted, already red in the face. "I didn't mean to assault your torso!"
I looked up.
And there he was.
Bastien Chevalier.
Shirtless.
Absolutely shirtless.
I blinked. Then I blinked again, because apparently my brain had entered buffering mode.
"Umm… sir," I managed to croak, my eyes respectfully avoiding his chest but failing spectacularly. "May I ask you why you are shirtless?"
"I was changing," he said casually, like this was a normal thing and not a full-on Greek god cosplay at ten in the morning.
"Right," I said, nodding too fast, like a bobblehead having a seizure.
Time to be professional. That's what Giulia said. Be normal. Be cool. Be someone else entirely.
But my eyes kept landing on his stupidly sculpted chest like they had a GPS installed for pecs only.Hey—it's not my fault, okay? My eyes have autonomy in moments of crisis.And clearly, this was a full-blown crisis.
I cleared my throat, attempting to find my spine. "I'm Elio. The teacher assigned to assist—"
FREEZE.I froze mid-sentence.
Huh?Wait a minute.WAIT A FREAKING MINUTE.
This body.
THIS BODY.
The planes of that chest, that collarbone, those abs currently glistening slightly under the hallway lights like they were blessed by skincare gods—I… I remember them.
Like a traumatic flashback, my brain started slamming puzzle pieces together. My heart began hammering in my chest, louder than the fangirls outside.
No...no. No freaking way....
I looked up, eyes wide.
"Are you alright?" he asked again, concerned. And somehow not realizing he had just detonated my entire sense of reality.
That voice.That exact voice.
Memories I had blissfully blocked with denial came flooding in.
That night. That dark hotel room. The silky sheets. The soft moans. The way his voice rumbled—
"Are you alright?"
Yes.
This… this is the man I had a one-night stand with. The man whose face I couldn't remember until just now.
The man whose deep voice once whispered, "Should I stop here?" while absolutely not stopping.
GULP.
So…I—Elio Conti, Full-time teacher, part-time disaster—had slept with Bastien Chevalier.
And Bastien Chevalier…He was the father of my child.
Fuck! I am totally doomed.