Chapter 154 Bonus Chapter 6- Never Let Him See How Much You Care

Chapter 154 Bonus Chapter 6- Never Let Him See How Much You Care
HARRY CAGE
In my experience, students fall into two very distinct categories. The ones who ask good questions and the ones who ask stupid ones. And before anyone gets offended, because they always do, a stupid question isn’t one that lacks knowledge. It’s not about intelligence. I can work with ignorance; that’s the whole point of a classroom. If a student genuinely doesn’t understand something and asks, no matter how basic it is, that’s a GOOD question. That’s effort. That’s engagement. A stupid question is one asked with intent, to derail a lesson, to get a laugh, to waste time, to test how far they can push me before I snap. Those questions? I don’t entertain them. When students don’t want to learn, I don’t want to teach them. Simple as that. I have no shortage of ways to make that clear. A look, a pause, a very pointed silence that stretches just long enough to make them regret opening their mouths usually does the trick. Occasionally I have to escalate, throw in a cutting remark or two, but for the most part, they learn quickly. And if they don’t, they stop showing up, which is an acceptable outcome. Less noise, more time for the ones who deserve it. That approach worked just fine for years. Then Lexi walked into my class. At first, she was easy to categorise: quiet, observant, careful. She didn’t interrupt, didn’t push, didn’t try to be clever, and notably never asked a stupid question. If anything, my concern was the opposite, I was waiting for her to ask a good one, the kind that digs too deep, the kind that forces me to either give a real answer or lie convincingly, which is basically impossible because she can tell when people are lying… Students like her don’t ask questions for the sake of it; they ask because they’re thinking, and when they start thinking too much, they start connecting things, and when they start connecting things… that’s when trouble starts. Especially for someone like her. Because I knew what she was, or at least I had a very strong suspicion, and I knew exactly what would happen if she figured it out too early. So my plan was simple: keep her learning, but not too fast, and most importantly, keep her from asking the wrong questions. For a while, it worked. Then everything went to hell. Now I’ve got a perky little blonde showing up to my class like she owns the place, talking constantly, not just to Blake Nyvas, which would already be enough, but to EVERYONE. The wolves, other students, and, inexplicably, me. I don’t encourage it. I don’t respond to half of what she says. I glare, I sigh, I make it clear I’m not interested, and yet she keeps doing it like she’s immune to basic social cues, or more accurately, like she’s chosen to ignore them. It should be irritating. By all logic, it is irritating. Except… it isn’t. Not really. Because when she’s not there, the room feels wrong, too quiet, too flat, like something essential is missing. She’s like background noise. Elevator music. You don’t notice it while it’s there, you don’t actively want it, but the second it’s gone, the silence is worse. And that’s the problem. Because getting attached to students is a bad idea, especially ones who attract chaos like it’s part of their job description. And Lexi doesn’t just attract chaos, she creates it, constantly, usually by accident. And somehow, despite all of that, despite the hunters, the incidents, the fact that she is quite possibly one of the most dangerous students on campus without even realising it, she still walks into my class, smiles like everything is fine, and asks perfectly normal questions like the world isn’t trying to tear itself apart around her. And, against my better judgement… I let her. 

I’m not the only one who’s noticed that Lexi is… significant. It’s not subtle anymore. Now that the wolves have backed off and Blake Nyvas has, well, not mellowed out exactly, he’s still about as subtle as a natural disaster, but he’s been… more approachable. Slightly. Marginally. And I’d bet my entire office that it’s because of her. That relentlessly cheerful, open, friendly attitude of hers. This is exactly why unicorns got hunted into near extinction in the first place. They can’t help themselves. They seek people out. They connect. They shine like a beacon and then act surprised when everything in a five-mile radius turns to look. People gravitate toward that kind of energy whether they mean to or not. Even the students who used to sneer at her have softened. They won’t admit it, most of them don’t have the spine, but I hear what they say when they think no one’s listening. They talk about her like she’s some kind of princess. A princess, of all things. Guarded by a dragon, obviously. And now, apparently, backed by a pack of wolf shifters who have decided she belongs to them in some loosely defined, deeply confusing, loyalty-based hierarchy. It’s absurd. And yet… it’s not wrong. Unicorns have a way of dragging things out of people. The best parts, the worst parts. They amplify everything. Even that wolf alpha, arrogant, insufferable, borderline UNBEARABLE last year, has improved. Noticeably. And he’s not even IN her class. But me? No. Absolutely not. I am not letting some girl change how I run my classroom. I refuse. I don’t bend for students. I don’t adapt for personalities. I do not, under any circumstances, soften. So when I catch myself adjusting my lessons without even thinking about it, slowing down when she’s there, choosing my wording more carefully, structuring things so she’ll understand faster, I shut it down. Immediately. Unacceptable. I revert back to my usual pacing, my usual tone, my usual expectations. No special treatment. None. But then… later. After class. When I’m alone in my office, door shut, no one watching, that’s when the problem starts. Because I sit down, and I start writing. Everything I can remember about unicorns. Every scrap of knowledge I’ve picked up, every rumour worth anything, every detail from the one, and only, interaction I ever had with her father. I write about shifting, especially late shifts. The risks, the warning signs, the physical strain. I write about unicorn’s strengths, their weaknesses, what they need to watch for, what they need to avoid. Practical things. Useful things. Things I would never say out loud in class because they are way too specific to her and would be wasting everyone else’s time. And then, because apparently I’ve already lost whatever battle I was pretending to fight, I start adding more advanced notes. The kind of things Blake would understand. The kind of things he could help her with. Because, irritatingly, he is a good teacher. I keep going until my hand aches and the light outside my window has long since disappeared. Then I sit back, stare at the pages, and wonder what the hell I’m doing. I could give it to her. Directly. That would be the logical thing. I grimace. No. Absolutely not. 
“Hey,” I mutter, shoving the pages into my desk drawer.
“Give this to Lexi, would you? Just… put it in her room or something.” I ask the Academy awkwardly. I wait a second, then open the drawer again. Empty. Good. I’m done. That’s it. My involvement ends there. No special treatment in class. Nothing obvious. And I am definitely not doing this because I feel guilty about how I treated her at the start. Or because of Blake. I sigh, pressing my fingers into my temple, then glance at the stack of remaining paper. …Damn it. Blake. With a long-suffering groan, I pull out another sheet and start writing again. Dragons this time. Shifting tips. Control techniques. Things he should already know, but it is glaringly obvious that his parents never taught him shit. This is going to be a long night.