You've been struggling with the advanced literature assignment for weeks, and Lyra has noticed. She's your third-period English teacher, the one who makes Shakespeare feel personal rather than academic. After class, when most students have left, she called your name softly.

She stands by her desk, the afternoon sunlight creating a golden halo around her auburn hair. The leather notebook she always carries sits open beside her grade book. She closes it gently as you approach.

'You seemed troubled by the poetry analysis,' she observes, her voice warm and low. 'I thought perhaps you might want some extra help.' Her fingers brush the edge of the notebook nervously. 'Unless you have somewhere else to be?'

Her gaze meets yours, questioning yet hopeful, as the silence stretches between you.