One evening, Emily Whitaker placed the last marked exercise book on top of the pile at the edge of her desk. Now, all that was left was to input the end-of-term grades into the register. Outside the staff room window, snowflakes drifted slowly under the glow of street lamps, long after nightfall.
A metallic clang echoed outside the door, followed by the wet slap of a mop hitting the floor. It was Mrs. Wilkins—though everyone, even the teachers, called her Winnie—the school cleaner, making her way upstairs to mop the corridors. Spotting the strip of light under the staff room door, Winnie grumbled loudly,
“Still here at this hour, trampling my clean floors! Why don’t they just go home…?” The mop swished disapprovingly across the linoleum, as if agreeing with her.
*No one’s waiting for me anyway. You’ll have to put up with me a little longer, Winnie.* Emily sighed to herself and opened the class register.
Forty minutes later, she shut it with a tired thud, shelved it with the others, and paused. She hadn’t even noticed when the noise outside had stopped. Sliding into her coat before the mirror, she grabbed her handbag, glanced around the staff room one last time, and switched off the light. The corridor floors still glistened damply under the dim glow of the emergency bulb at the far end.
Downstairs, the security desk stood empty. Emily stepped into the tiny office, hung the key in the glass-fronted cupboard.
“I’m leaving—staff room’s locked, key’s here!” she called, shattering the school’s heavy silence.
No answer. No one came. But she knew the building was never truly empty—someone always stayed overnight, a caretaker or guard.
“Goodnight!” she announced, louder this time, and stepped outside.
A few paces from the school gates, she glanced back and spotted the elderly caretaker securing the door from within.
The icy playground pavement, worn smooth by generations of students, now lay under a thin dusting of snow. Emily picked her way carefully to the wrought-iron gates.
The road was deserted, even cars rare at this hour. She hurried home.
Ever since she was little, Emily had played school with her dolls and friends. What else would she be, with her mum teaching English and literature? University had been easy—straight into teacher training.
There’d been few men in her course, and those there were only noticed the pretty girls—not her, or so she thought. By graduation, she had neither a husband nor even a boyfriend.
She wasn’t bothered. There’d be time. People always mistook her for a sixth-former, her youthful looks belying her age. Her mum, though, worried.
“Teaching changes you,” she’d say. “The longer you’re at it, the harder it’ll be to find someone decent.” So her parents bought her a flat, gave her independence.
But what good was freedom when the school staff was almost entirely women? Aside from the PE teacher (who flirted with everyone), the retired army veteran teaching health and safety (already a grandfather three times over), and two elderly caretakers?
“God forbid you end up like me—married late, just one child by forty,” her mum fretted.
As if fretting would magic up a husband.
Fairy lights twinkled in windows as she walked. Emily hadn’t bothered with a tree. What was the point? She’d spend Christmas at her parents’ as usual. Turning into a quiet side street, she suddenly heard footsteps behind her. Her grip tightened on her bag.
A man walked a short distance back, his hood casting shadows over his face. Heart pounding, she sped up.
At the next corner, she ducked behind a wall, holding her breath. Seconds passed—no footsteps. Peeking out, she nearly collided with him.
“What do you want? Why are you following me? I’ll call the police!” Her voice shook. “Help!” she squeaked for effect.
The man pushed back his hood.
“Miss Whitaker—it’s me, Oliver Carter,” he said, smiling.
“Oliver?” She barely recognised the broad-shouldered man before her as the boy from her first-ever Year 11 class. “Are you mugging me?” she gasped, eyes wide.
“What? No! I’ve been walking you home for days—it’s dark early, no streetlights round here, and… well, it’s not safe. Tonight you stayed later than usual.”
“You’ve been *what*?” Emily blinked. “I didn’t notice. I was marking—end-of-term grades.”
“Did the school already have its Christmas tree?” Oliver asked, still smiling.
“Yesterday,” she admitted, relaxing slightly.
“I loved when they put up a real one in the hall—that pine smell, like presents and mince pies. Impossible to focus on lessons those last days before break.” He sighed nostalgically. “Come on, I’ll walk you.”
“You really don’t have to,” Emily protested, though the fear had ebbed. “It’s just round the corner.”
“I haven’t seen you in years. Humour me.” His tone turned earnest.
They walked, Oliver filling her in on his life—odd jobs in IT, fixing laptops, selling them, plans to open a shop with a mate.
“You’d know him—Tom Griffiths. So if you ever need tech help…” He grinned.
Outside her flat, Oliver hesitated. “Every time I’ve walked you, your lights are off. No one waiting.” He glanced at the dark windows.
“You should’ve been a detective,” Emily teased, thanking him before heading inside.
“Not inviting me up, Miss Whitaker?” he called after her.
“It’s late. I’m exhausted,” she said, turning back.
The next evening, she left school early. Barely through her front door, the buzzer rang. Expecting her mum on one of her “inspections,” Emily opened it—
Oliver stood there, one arm cradling a tied-up Christmas tree, the other holding a printer-paper box.
“Evening, Miss Whitaker. Had a feeling you didn’t have a tree. Brought baubles, just in case.”
“I wasn’t planning to decorate—I’m at my parents’ for Christmas.” His smile faltered. “…But come in.” She stepped aside.
The flat filled with pine as Oliver set the tree up. Decorating it, their hands brushed—awkward, flustered pauses between ornaments. Over tea, he asked,
“Can I call you Emily? We’re not in school. And ‘Miss Whitaker’ is a mouthful.”
She liked that he didn’t shorten it to “Em”—hated that, reminded her of squeaky-voiced characters in old films.
“Saw your friends call you that online,” he added shamelessly.
“What *else* do you know about me?” she asked warily.
Oliver laughed. “Too bold if I say ‘*you*’ now? We’re not teacher and student anymore.” Before she could react, he continued, “I fancied you rotten at school. You went bright red giving out detentions.”
Emily didn’t know what to say. She’d noticed his looks in class—but pupils often crushed on teachers, especially young ones. She couldn’t… *shouldn’t* reciprocate.
That first class stayed with her. At prom, Oliver had asked her to dance. They’d waltzed alone under everyone’s stares—no other men knew how. Her mum had taught her.
“You know, I started revising because of you,” he admitted. “Couldn’t look thick in front of you. Even got good at English eventually. Wanted to make something of myself—thought maybe then…” He trailed off. “Couldn’t wait any longer. Afraid someone else might get there first.”
She studied him—no trace of the boy remained. Sharp features softened by warmth.
“Oliver, I’m older than you,” she murmured.
“Four years? Blokes are *supposed* to be older? That’s old-fashioned.”
“You’re serious? About *marriage*?” She gaped. “You’ve grown up, yes. But so have I.”
He met her eyes. “Loved you for years. Waited to say it properly. We’ve both changed—so how about New Year’s together? See where it goes. Give me a chance.”
*Why not?* Her face burned. *He looks my age now. Mum’ll stop nagging about my ‘biological clock.’*
“Alright,” she said softly.
“Really?” Oliver lit up. “Brilliant! You sort food, I’ll bring fizz. Won’t be dull.” Standing, he added huskily, “It’s late. We’ll sort details tomorrow.”
His gaze held hers—pleading, hopeful, tender—until she looked away, pulse racing.
Leaning against the door after he left, cheeks aflame, she called her mum next day:
“Not coming for New Year’s. Don’t worry—I won’t be alone.”
Her mum rushed over, demanding details. Emily didn’t mention he’d been herBy the time summer arrived, Emily stood at the front of her classroom, a delicate gold band on her finger and a noticeable bump beneath her sundress, while Oliver waited outside the school gates, ready to walk her home—just as he did every day.
