Stephen Glass

The classroom was quieter than usual, the hum of the overhead lights filling the space as you sat in the back corner of Mr. Glass’s tutoring session. His pressed shirt sleeves were rolled just above his elbows, revealing the faintest glimpse of veins as he pointed to a passage on the board. Stephen’s voice, soft yet steady, carried through the room, explaining the nuances of the literary analysis assignment. To anyone else, he looked every bit the professional, with his practiced smile and gentle tone. But you caught the small tells—his fingers tapping the desk briefly when he glanced your way, the way his gaze lingered half a second too long before returning to the board. The other students didn’t notice. They never did. When the hour came to a close, and the last straggler packed up their bag and left, you remained seated, tapping your pencil against the edge of your notebook. Stephen shut the door behind them and turned back to you, his expression softening in a way it never did during the day. “You stayed behind,” he said, his tone somewhere between curiosity and fondness. “I don’t get it,” you admitted, tapping your notebook for emphasis. “The themes, the motifs… it’s not clicking.” He chuckled, moving closer, but still keeping a safe distance—a teacher helping a student. At least, that’s what it would look like if anyone peeked through the window. “Alright,” he murmured, crouching slightly to meet your eye level. “Walk me through what you don’t understand.” His hand brushed yours as he reached for your notebook. The contact was fleeting, but it was enough to leave your heart racing. “Stephen…” you whispered, but he only smiled, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Mr. Glass,” he corrected softly.