The Last Moonshine

Episode4

I was going to be late.

The thought sent a spike of panic through my chest as I sprinted down the hallway, my bag bouncing against my hip, my curls flying behind me like a dark cloud. I'd lost track of time in the library again, buried in a book that had nothing to do with any of my classes, and now I was paying the price.

The bell had already rung.

I skidded to a stop outside the classroom door, my heart pounding, my breath coming in short gasps. I could hear voices inside—Mrs. Patterson's warm tone, the low murmur of students settling in for the last period of the day.

I pushed the door open and slipped inside, keeping my head down, my eyes fixed on the floor. I didn't look up. I never looked up. It was easier that way. If I didn't see them, they couldn't see me.

I made a beeline for my usual seat in the back corner, my steps quick and purposeful. I could feel eyes on me, the familiar prickle of attention that made my skin crawl. But I kept my head down, my focus on the empty desk that was waiting for me.

I slid into my seat, pulling out my textbook and notebook with practiced efficiency. I could feel my heart still racing, my breathing still shallow. I forced myself to take a deep breath, to calm down, to pretend that I hadn't just sprinted through the hallways like a maniac.

That's when I heard it.

A throat clearing.

I looked up.

And my heart stopped.

He was standing at the front of the classroom.

The stranger from the party. The one with the grey eyes and the voice that cut through the chaos like a blade. The one who had appeared out of nowhere, saved me from Derek, and disappeared back into the shadows like he'd never existed.

He was here.

In my classroom.

Dressed in a suit that made him look like he belonged on a magazine cover instead of a high school history class. His dark hair was styled to perfection, his features sharp and symmetrical, his expression unreadable.

But it was his eyes that caught me.

Grey. Silvery. Like moonlight on water.

And they were looking right at me.

I felt my breath catch in my throat. My heart pounded so hard I could hear it in my ears. My hands started trembling, and I clutched my textbook so tightly my knuckles went white.

He was here.

The stranger from the party.

He was my teacher.

"Good afternoon," he said, his voice low and smooth. "I'm Mr. Donatello. Mrs. Patterson will be out for the rest of the semester, so I'll be your substitute."

Mr. Donatello.

Not the stranger. Not the man with the grey eyes. Mr. Donatello.

I blinked, trying to process the information. He was a substitute teacher. He was going to be here, in my classroom, every day for the rest of the semester.

I didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified.

He began taking attendance, his voice steady and professional. When he called my name, I flinched.

"Brienne Tilly Cole?"

I raised my hand, my voice barely a whisper. "Here."

His eyes flickered to me, and I saw something flash in them. Recognition, maybe. Or surprise. I couldn't tell. It was gone too quickly.

He moved on to the next name, and I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.

The hour passed in a blur.

I couldn't focus on anything Mr. Donatello said. My mind was too busy spinning through scenarios, trying to make sense of what was happening.

He was the stranger from the party. He'd saved me from Derek. He'd looked at me like I was a mystery he wanted to solve.

And now he was my teacher.

It was too much of a coincidence. It had to be.

But what did it mean? Why was he here? Was he following me? Was he—

"Miss Cole."

I looked up, startled. Mr. Donatello was standing at the front of the classroom, his expression patient but unreadable.

"The assignment," he said. "Do you have any questions?"

I blinked, trying to remember what he'd been talking about. Something about the Industrial Revolution. Or maybe World War I. I had no idea.

"No," I managed. "No questions."

He studied me for a moment, his silvery eyes searching my face. I felt like he could see right through me, like he could read every thought in my head.

"Good," he said. "If you need help, my door is always open."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

He moved on to the next student, and I let out a shaky breath.

What was happening to me?

The bell rang.

Students began packing up their bags, their voices rising in the familiar chaos of the end of the day. I stayed in my seat, frozen, watching Mr. Donatello out of the corner of my eye.

He was organizing papers at his desk, his movements precise and controlled. He didn't look up. He didn't acknowledge me.

I should leave, I thought. I should grab my bag and get out of here as fast as possible.

But I couldn't move.

My body was rooted to the chair, my eyes fixed on him. I needed to say something. I needed to thank him. It was the right thing to do.

The last student filed out, and the door clicked shut behind them.

We were alone.

I stood up slowly, my legs trembling. I walked to his desk, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.

He looked up, his grey eyes meeting mine. He didn't seem surprised to see me. He just waited.

"Thank you," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "For the other night. At the party. For helping me."

He studied me for a moment, his expression unreadable. "You don't need to thank me."

"Yes, I do." I swallowed hard. "He was... he wasn't going to stop. And you stepped in. You didn't have to do that."

Mr. Donatello was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded slowly.

"I didn't do it for thanks," he said. "I did it because it was the right thing to do."

I didn't know what to say to that. So I just nodded.

He studied me for a moment longer, his grey eyes unreadable. Then he spoke again.

"I heard you're one of Mrs. Patterson's best students," he said. "She mentioned you before she left. Said you have a gift for writing."

I blinked, surprised. "She did?"

"She did." He set down his papers, giving me his full attention. "If you ever need help with anything—the material, the assignments, whatever it is—my door is always open."

I nodded, my heart pounding. "Thank you, Mr. Donatello."

"You're welcome, Brienne."

The way he said my name made my stomach flip. It was different, somehow. Like he was tasting it. Like it meant something.

I turned and fled the classroom before I could do something stupid.