Chapter Text
Emma Swan was seven minutes late to English, which was not unusual, except this time she had absolutely no excuse prepared.
Not a good one, anyway.
She had spent those seven minutes locked in the girls’ bathroom on the second floor, sitting on the closed lid of the end cubicle, hands pressed hard against her ears while the corridor outside swelled with voices and lockers banging and laughter that seemed too loud, too sharp, too much. She had told herself she was being ridiculous. She had told herself to get up. She had told herself that normal people did not hide in bathrooms because walking into a classroom late felt like stepping onto a stage beneath a spotlight.
But Emma had never been particularly good at being normal.
By the time she reached Room 214, her pulse was still too quick, her bag was slipping from one shoulder, and the hallway was empty in that accusing way hallways only ever were when everyone else was exactly where they were supposed to be.
She stopped outside the door. Through the narrow glass panel, she could see the new English teacher standing at the front of the room.
Ms Mills.
Regina Mills, according to the neat black handwriting on the board.
Emma had only seen her twice before. Once during assembly, when Principal Hopper had introduced her as “a wonderful addition to the English department,” and once yesterday, when Emma had sat at the back of the room and tried very hard not to stare at the way Ms Mills moved like she already owned every inch of the classroom.
She was young. Younger than the other teachers. Not young enough to be mistaken for a student, but young enough that the difference was obvious.
She wore a bright pink blazer over a cream blouse, her heels clicking with terrifying confidence against the floor. Her dark hair was pinned back, not a strand out of place, and there was something about her that made Emma feel like sitting up straighter even from the wrong side of a closed door.
Emma swallowed, considered turning around, and then hated herself enough to open the door instead.
Every head turned.
Of course they did.
The noise was small, just a pause, a ripple, a few whispers from the front row, but Emma felt it like heat crawling up the back of her neck. She kept her eyes on the floor and muttered, “Sorry.”
Ms Mills stopped mid-sentence.
Emma waited for it. The sharp reprimand. The public humiliation. The pointed question about why she thought her time was more important than everyone else’s. Instead, Ms Mills simply looked at her for one measured second and said, “Take your seat, Miss Swan.”
Emma’s eyes flicked up despite herself.
Ms Mills was watching her, expression unreadable, one hand resting lightly on the edge of her desk. There was no smile, no softness exactly, but there was also no cruelty. No performance for the rest of the class. Just an instruction.
Emma nodded once and went to the back. Her seat was the last one by the window. She liked it because nobody sat behind her. She hated it because it meant she had to walk past everyone to get there.
“Nice of you to join us,” someone muttered as she passed.
A few people laughed under their breath. Emma pretended not to hear. She was good at that.
“Daniel,” Ms Mills said, voice cool and sudden.
The boy in the second row straightened. “What?”
“I assume, since you have enough attention to spare for commentary, you have already finished analysing the passage?”
The room went quiet. Daniel’s ears turned red. “No, Miss.”
“Then I suggest you return to it.”
Emma slid into her chair and kept her face down, but something in her chest loosened a fraction.
She pulled out her battered copy of Jane Eyre, a notebook with bent corners, and a pen that leaked ink onto her fingers. Ms Mills continued teaching as though nothing had happened, her voice calm and precise, walking the room while she asked questions Emma knew the answers to but would sooner swallow glass than say aloud.
“What does Jane’s refusal to become Rochester’s mistress tell us about her sense of self?” Ms Mills asked.
Emma stared at the page. She knew. She knew that Jane would rather be alone than be loved badly. That dignity mattered more because it was all she truly owned. That sometimes leaving was the only way to survive wanting something. Her fingers tightened around her pen.
“Miss Swan?”
Emma’s stomach dropped. The room blurred at the edges. She looked up and found Ms Mills watching her from halfway down the aisle, not impatient, not amused, just waiting.
“I…” Emma’s voice caught.
Everyone was listening. She could feel it. Their attention had weight. “I don’t know,” she said quickly.
Ms Mills tilted her head, just slightly. “You don’t know, or you would rather not answer?”
Someone snickered. Emma’s face burned. “I don’t know.”
For a moment, Ms Mills said nothing. Then she turned smoothly away. “Very well. Ashley?”
Ashley Boyd, who sat near the front with red streaks in her hair and enough confidence for the entire class, leaned back in her chair. “I think it means Jane’s got standards.”
A few people laughed, properly this time. Ms Mills arched an eyebrow. “An informal but not inaccurate beginning. Expand on that.”
Ashley grinned. “She knows what she deserves. Even if it hurts.”
Emma looked down at her book again. She could still feel Ms Mills nearby, even after she had moved away.
By the end of the lesson, Emma had not said another word. She copied down everything written on the board. She kept her shoulders hunched. She ignored the knot of anxiety that sat stubbornly beneath her ribs and counted the seconds until the bell.
When it finally rang, the room erupted. Chairs scraped. Bags zipped. Voices filled every corner.Emma moved slowly on purpose. If she waited long enough, she could leave after the rush had gone. It was easier that way. Less chance of being shoved, laughed at, noticed.
She was shoving her notebook into her bag when Ms Mills said, “Miss Swan, a moment, please.”
Emma froze.
A few students looked back as they left. Daniel smirked. Ashley glanced between Emma and Ms Mills and began whispering with the other girls. Then the room was empty. Emma stood by her desk, hand gripping the strap of her bag. “I’m sorry I was late.”
“I didn’t ask you to stay because you were late.”
That was somehow worse. Emma’s mouth went dry. “Oh.”
Ms Mills moved behind her desk and picked up a slim folder. “You didn’t hand in yesterday’s response paragraph.”
Emma blinked. “I did.”
“No.” Regina opened the folder and scanned the papers inside. “You did not.”
“I left it on your desk.”
“When?”
“At the end of class.”
Ms Mills looked up. “I didn’t see it.”
Emma’s chest tightened. She could hear the accusation even though it had not been spoken. Liar. Lazy. Difficult. Always an excuse.
“I did it,” Emma said, too quickly.
“I didn’t say you hadn’t.”
Emma stopped.
Ms Mills set the folder down. “Emma.”
Hearing her first name in that voice did something strange to her. Not romantic. Not exactly. Just startling. Like being pulled back into her body.
“I’m not angry,” Ms Mills said.
Emma stared at her.
Teachers said that sometimes. Usually before proving otherwise.
Ms Mills seemed to notice, because her expression shifted, barely enough to be called softer. “I’m asking because if work goes missing, I need to know whether it’s a habit, an accident, or something else.”
“It’s not a habit.”
“I didn’t assume it was.”
Emma looked away. “I can rewrite it.”
“If you have the original, bring it tomorrow.”
“I don’t.”
“Then rewrite it.”
There it was. The punishment. Emma nodded once. “Fine.”
“Not as punishment,” Ms Mills added.
Emma looked back at her.
“As evidence,” Ms Mills said. “You understood the text earlier. I saw that. I would like to see what you wrote.”
Emma did not know what to do with that.
People rarely noticed when she understood things. They noticed when she was late, when she did not speak, when she skipped lunch, when she wore the same jacket three days in a row because it made her feel safer.
They noticed the wrong things. The easy things.
“You saw that?” Emma asked before she could stop herself.
Ms Mills studied her. “Yes.”
Emma’s face warmed again, but this time it felt different. Worse, maybe. Better, maybe. She did not know.
“Oh,” she said.
A pause settled between them.
Outside the classroom, students shouted and laughed and slammed lockers. Inside, everything felt strangely still.
“You seemed uncomfortable when I called on you,” Ms Mills said.
Emma’s defences snapped back into place. “I’m fine.”
“I didn’t ask if you were fine.”
“That’s usually what people mean.”
Something flickered across Ms Mills’s face. Surprise, perhaps. Then she sat down behind her desk, folding her hands neatly over the papers in front of her. “I’ll be more direct, then. Would you prefer I didn’t call on you without warning?”
Emma stared at her. No teacher had ever asked her that. Most of them thought surprise participation built confidence. It did not. It built nausea.
“You can do that?” Emma asked.
“I can do whatever I feel best supports my students’ learning.”
Emma let out a small, humourless breath. “Most teachers just think I’m being difficult.”
“Are you?”
The question should have offended her. It did not, because Ms Mills asked it like she genuinely wanted the answer.
Emma shifted her weight. “No.”
“Then I won’t treat you as though you are.”
Something tightened unexpectedly in Emma’s chest. Something that felt like wanting to trust someone and knowing better. She nodded because she had no words for any of that.
Ms Mills looked down at the papers on her desk. “Rewrite the paragraph for tomorrow. It doesn’t have to be long.”
“Okay.”
“And Miss Swan?”
Emma paused at the door.
“Try to be on time.”
There was the edge Emma had expected from the beginning, but it was not unkind. It was almost normal.
Emma nodded. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“Apology accepted.”
Emma left before anything else could happen. She made it halfway down the corridor before she realised she was smiling. She stopped immediately.
“That’s pathetic,” she muttered to herself, and kept walking.
———
By lunch, the cafeteria was unbearable.
It always was, but some days Emma could manage it. She could sit at the end of a table and eat quickly, eyes down, pretending she did not care that nobody spoke to her. She could survive the noise and the smell of chips and disinfectant and too many bodies pressed into one room.
That day, she made it as far as the entrance before her feet stopped working. Every table was full. Every group looked closed. Someone laughed too loudly near the vending machines, and Emma’s hand tightened around the paper bag holding her sandwich.
She turned around. There was no plan. There rarely was. She walked the corridor until the noise faded behind her. Past the science labs. Past the history display. Up the stairs. Her body seemed to know where it was going before her mind agreed.
Room 214. The door was open. Emma stopped outside it for the second time that day.
Ms Mills was sitting at her desk, red pen in hand, a stack of exercise books to one side and a mug of coffee steaming beside her. She looked different without a class in front of her. Less untouchable. Still terrifying, but quieter somehow. There was a small crease between her brows as she read, and every now and then she wrote something in the margin with quick, decisive strokes.
Emma should leave. Instead, she knocked once on the doorframe. Ms Mills looked up. “Miss Swan?”
Emma’s courage vanished instantly. “Sorry. I’ll go.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No.”
Ms Mills waited. Emma hated that. She hated when people waited instead of filling the silence, because it meant she had to decide whether to lie or be honest.
“I just…” Emma looked down at the sandwich bag in her hand. “The cafeteria’s loud.”
Ms Mills’s gaze followed the movement. Then she understood. Emma saw it happen. Not pity exactly. Pity would have made Emma bolt. This was something more careful.
“I see,” Ms Mills said.
Emma nodded once. “It’s stupid.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is.”
“It isn’t,” Ms Mills repeated, firmer this time. “Some people find crowded environments difficult.”
Emma gave a short laugh. “That sounds nicer than ‘freak who can’t eat lunch with everyone else’.”
Ms Mills’s expression sharpened. “Don’t call yourself that.”
Emma looked up, startled. For a second neither of them spoke. Then Ms Mills set down her pen. “You may sit, if you like.”
Emma blinked. “What?”
“In here. For lunch.”
“Oh.” Emma looked around the room as though someone might jump out and accuse her of trespassing. “Are you sure?”
“I wouldn’t have offered otherwise.”
Emma hesitated. “I won’t talk.”
“That is not a requirement.”
“I won’t bother you.”
“I’m marking essays. Silence would be a gift.”
Emma almost smiled. She moved to the desk closest to the windows, the same one she had used in class, and sat down slowly like she expected the offer to be withdrawn. Ms Mills returned to her marking, though Emma could feel her noticing everything. The way Emma opened the sandwich bag carefully to avoid making noise. The way she sat with her back to the wall. The way she did not take off her jacket despite the room being warm.
For several minutes, there was only the sound of paper turning and distant lunchtime chaos muffled through the walls.
Emma took a bite of her sandwich. Cheese and pickle. Slightly squashed. She had made it herself that morning while half-asleep.
Ms Mills marked three pages before saying, without looking up, “You had an answer earlier.”
Emma nearly choked. “What?”
“In class. About Jane Eyre. You had an answer.”
Emma swallowed. “No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know what thinking looks like, Miss Swan.”
Emma stared at her sandwich. “Maybe I was thinking about something else.”
“Were you?”
Emma sighed through her nose. “No.”
Ms Mills’s mouth curved, very slightly. Not quite a smile. “Then?”
Emma picked at the crust. “She leaves because staying would make her hate herself.”
Regina’s pen stopped. Emma regretted speaking immediately. “That’s… not how I’d write it in an essay,” she added quickly. “I know it sounds stupid.”
“It doesn’t sound stupid.”
Emma did not look up. Ms Mills leaned back in her chair. “It sounds honest.” That was worse than praise. Praise could be dismissed. Honest could not.
Emma shrugged. “Whatever.”
“Why didn’t you say that in class?”
“Because everyone would look at me.”
“They look at you when you’re silent too.”
Emma’s head snapped up. Ms Mills met her gaze calmly. It should have felt cruel. It did not. Emma swallowed. “That’s not helpful.”
“No,” Ms Mills said. “But it is true.”
Emma hated that she smiled. Just for half a second. Ms Mills saw it. Emma knew she saw it because her own expression softened before she looked back down at the essay in front of her.
“Would it help,” Ms Mills said, “if I gave you warning? A question I might ask the next day, perhaps. So you could prepare.”
Emma frowned. “Why?”
“Because your thoughts are worth hearing.”
The words landed too heavily. Emma stared at her. Regina seemed to realise it at the same time Emma did, because she cleared her throat and picked up her pen again. “Academically speaking.”
“Right,” Emma said, though her voice came out quieter than intended.Your thoughts are worth hearing. Nobody had ever said anything like that to her before.
Lunch passed faster than it usually did. Emma finished her sandwich. Ms Mills finished half the stack of essays and made several disapproving noises under her breath, which Emma pretended not to find funny.
At one point, Ms Mills lifted her mug, frowned at it, and muttered, “Cold. Wonderful.”
Emma said, “You forgot it was there.”
Ms Mills glanced at her. “An occupational hazard.”
“My last English teacher used to drink six coffees a day.”
“Did he teach well?”
“No.”
“Then perhaps coffee was not the solution.”
Emma laughed. Ms Mills looked at her for a moment too long before the bell rang. Emma stood quickly, shoving her rubbish into her bag. “I’ll go.”
“You don’t have to run,” Ms Mills said.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Emma paused. “Sorry.”
“You apologise a lot.”
Emma stiffened.
Ms Mills noticed. “That wasn’t a criticism.”
“Sounded like one.”
“It was an observation.”
“Adults usually use those the same way.”
For a second, Ms Mills said nothing. Then she nodded once, slowly. “Noted.” Emma did not know why that made her chest ache.
She adjusted the strap of her bag and moved towards the door. Then, just before she stepped into the corridor, she stopped. Her fingers tightened around the doorframe. “Can I…” She hated how small her voice sounded. “Can I eat lunch here sometimes?”
Ms Mills looked up.
Emma forced herself to continue before she lost nerve. “Not every day. Just sometimes. If it’s okay. I can sit quietly. I won’t get in the way.”
The silence that followed felt endless. Emma wished she could take the question back. She had asked for too much. She always did, eventually. That was how it worked. People gave an inch, and Emma, stupidly, hungrily, mistook it for safety.
Then Ms Mills said, “Yes.”
Emma blinked. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” Regina repeated. “You may eat lunch here when you need to.”
Need.
Not want. Not when she was being weird or difficult or dramatic. When she needed to. Emma nodded, too fast. “Thanks.”
“Miss Swan?”
She looked back. Ms Mills’s face was composed again, professional and controlled, but her voice was quieter than it had been all day.
“You don’t have to earn a quiet place.”
Emma could not answer. So she left. This time, she made it all the way to her next class before she smiled. And this time, she did not tell herself to stop.