The first time I saw him, he was leaning against the front office counter like he hated every pastel tile in the place.
It was too early for drama. The hall lights were still half-dim, the bulletin boards slept behind butcher paper, and the smell of floor wax mixed with February cold every time the automatic doors sighed open. I had my arms full of construction paper suns and a plastic tub of crayons when I stepped into the office and nearly walked straight into his chest.
Hard. Solid. Black T‑shirt under a dark gray jacket that didn’t belong in an elementary school, and a face that made my brain misfire.
Scar first. It cut from his right eyebrow down along his cheekbone, pale against suntanned skin, like someone had tried to erase part of him and failed. His eyes were a washed-out storm color—blue, gray, something between—fixed on the secretary who was explaining the copy code. He wasn’t looking at me.
But I felt him like he was.
“Sorry,” I blurted, catching the tub as it tipped. A handful of crayons skittered across the floor.
The secretary, Linda, winced. “Mae, sweetheart, watch your—”
He crouched before she finished, boots silent on the tile. One big, scarred hand closed around a rogue purple crayon; he set it back in the tub with absurd care, as if it might explode.
“Ma’am,” he said. Low voice, sandpaper-smooth. “You’re fine.”
My mouth went dry. No one under sixty called me ma’am, and definitely not men who looked like they could dismantle a car with their bare hands.
“I—uh—thanks.” I shifted the construction paper higher against my chest, fingers clumsy. “I didn’t see you there.”
He straightened to his full height—a head taller than me, easy, shoulders broad under the jacket. He smelled faintly of cold air and some clean, sharp soap that didn’t try too hard.
“You’re Ms. Collins.” It wasn’t a question.
Something cold uncurled under my ribs.
The papers in my arms dug into my sternum. “Yes.”
He studied my face for a beat, gaze traveling with clinical efficiency, like he was cataloging details: tired shadows, hair half-escaped from its bun, glitter clinging to my sleeve from yesterday’s art project. His eyes paused once on my throat, where my pulse had decided to audition for a drumline. Then he looked away.
“Gideon Kade,” he said. “Security.”
Oh.
The word dropped into my chest like a stone.
I’d known today was coming; Diane had warned me. There had been emails with phrases like external consultant and site safety assessment and my name in too many places. But I’d pictured some older retired cop with a soft belly and a dad mustache. Not… this.
Not someone whose presence made the tiny office feel two sizes smaller.
Linda hopped in, shuffling papers as if that might defuse the tension. “Mr. Kade is here to go over the new protocols, Mae. Principal’s waiting in her office for both of you.”
Both of you.
I swallowed. The cold thing under my ribs spread, brushing the edges of the other thing that had lived there for months now: an electric, buzzing unease that I’d learned to pack tight and smile around.
“Right,” I said. “Of course.”
Gideon stepped back just enough to let me pass, but not far; I had to angle my body, the plastic tub nudging his jacket. Heat bled through the fabric for a quick second—a startling, human contrast to his carved-from-stone posture.
