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Miss Palmer prided herself on being a professional.
She arrived fifteen minutes before the school gates opened every morning, coffee in hand and lanyard around her neck. Her shoes were polished, her lesson plans were printed in color, and her classroom—bright, orderly, always smelling faintly of lavender-scented wipes—was her kingdom.
And yet.
Even the most polished, the most put-together teachers had their indulgences. Some snuck extra biscuits from the staff room tin. Others secretly scrolled through Instagram while the children were at gym class. Miss Palmer’s vice?
Dr. Phillip Crane.
She was hardly alone in that.
Halfway through Amanda and Oliver Crane’s Year One in Mayfair Primary, the staffroom had been buzzing about them. Their story preceded them—there was the tragic accident that took their parents, the surprising fact that it was the children’s uncle, not grandparents, who took over their care. Most single men might have floundered in the role. Not Dr. Crane. He showed up to every meeting, every parents’ evening. He signed every permission slip on time, labeled their uniform, and remembered to pack extra plasters in Amanda’s backpack “just in case.”
But more than his quiet reliability was the fact that he was, frankly, devastatingly handsome.
Tall. Brooding. Sharp jaw, warm eyes. Always in those slightly rumpled button-downs and perfectly fitted trousers that made the Year Two team collectively forget their lunch orders mid-sentence.
“God really said, ‘Here, have a leading man,’ and handed him two traumatised children and a killer smile,” Miss Byrne had once whispered behind her mug.
“Bet he reads poetry and cries silently at sunsets,” Miss Aziz added with a dreamy sigh.
Miss Palmer had laughed along with the rest of them, pretending that her stomach didn’t flutter every time Phillip —he signed emails just Phillip —sent in a note written in surprisingly elegant handwriting.
At first, she saw him only during pick-up or the occasional school event. Always polite, always gracious, but never lingering. If he smiled, it was small and fleeting. If he laughed, it was mostly under his breath. And Miss Palmer, who had a perfectly respectable dating life and no need for unrequited school crushes, found herself looking forward to even those brief interactions.
Then came the Mayfair Primary environmental case.
Concerns over the school’s overgrown grounds, invasive plant species, and a suspected mold issue—believed to be the cause of several unexplained illnesses—reached a tipping point. A group of concerned parents rallied together to pursue legal action, and one of them, with just the right connections, secured pro bono representation from one of London’s most prestigious firms, Danbury and Bridgerton Law. It wasn’t long before they brought in an expert witness to strengthen their case.
Enter: Dr. Crane.
Apparently, in addition to being a full-time guardian and aesthetically blessed human, he also held a doctorate in some environment-related field (the exact one, she couldn’t quite recall) and consulted on legal cases. He was suddenly around the school more often—sitting in on meetings, talking to the legal team, coordinating risk assessments.
Miss Palmer had never been so grateful for being the twins’ form teacher.
One afternoon, as the students filed out for the day, she caught him standing near the Year Two garden plot, typing something into his phone.
“Dr. Crane!” she called out, trying not to sound too eager. “Busy day?”
He looked up and smiled, and this time it reached his eyes. “Isn’t it always in a primary school?”
She laughed, stepping closer. “Indeed. You’d be surprised how seldom we get through a day with only minor chaos.”
“I wouldn’t,” he said. “The twins make sure I get the extended edition at home.”
There was a beat of comfortable silence before Miss Palmer tilted her head. “It’s good to see you around more. I know the case has been… intense.”
He nodded. “It’s important. Kids deserve to be safe at school.”
He was earnest, and something about it tugged at her. For a brief moment, she considered saying something—asking if he wanted to grab a coffee, even casually. But before she could, Oliver barreled toward them, covered in dirt and beaming with pride about the worm he’d found in the playground mulch. Dr. Crane immediately dropped into a crouch to inspect the worm like it was a rare archaeological find.
And just like that, the moment passed.
Still, she held out a sliver of hope. Maybe when the twins moved up to Year Three, when the professional boundaries weren’t quite so rigid, she could ask.
The remainder of Year Two slipped by without event. Once the Mayfair Primary case had concluded—successfully, from what she could gather—Dr. Crane’s appearances at school became more infrequent. He still came when it mattered: parent-teacher conferences, science day, the occasional drop-off or pick-up when his schedule allowed. But without the excuse of official school business tying him to the grounds, he had less reason to linger.
When the new academic year began and the twins started Year Three, Miss Palmer noticed his presence even less. Still, on the rare occasions she caught a glimpse of him—from the school gates or walking across the car park—her heart gave a traitorous little flutter. It was silly, really. If anything, he seemed to be growing more attractive with time: a bit more relaxed in the shoulders, easier with his smile, something softer in his expression when he looked at the children.
The staffroom gossip had all but confirmed that he was still single. A few of the other teachers insisted they would’ve heard something if he wasn’t. After all, Mayfair Primary wasn’t large, and whispers had a way of traveling fast in tight-knit communities.
Still, Miss Palmer never could string up the courage to speak to him beyond the occasional warm greeting or polite conversation about the twins. She told herself it was professionalism—boundaries, appearances, all of that—but deep down, she knew it was more than that. He had a quiet gravity to him that unsettled her, in the gentlest way. Not intimidating, just… grounding. And she wasn’t sure what to do with that.
So she smiled when she saw him. And then, like always, she let him walk away.
But then came the Tuesday in late October.
Dismissal had just wrapped up. Miss Palmer was tidying up coloured pencils and wiping whiteboard markers off her palms when she spotted a woman approaching the school gate. Messy bun, oversized cardigan, flats that had clearly seen better days. The woman moved quickly, like she was running five minutes behind and didn’t like being late. Her face caught the light, and Miss Palmer paused mid-wipe.
She recognised her.
Miss Bridgerton.
The solicitor. Lead counsel on the civil case that had rocked Mayfair Primary the previous year. Everyone remembered her—sharp, poised, fiercely articulate. The kind of woman who made the school board sweat and had once argued an entire clause back into compliance over a Zoom call that half the staff had muted just to listen in.
Miss Palmer stepped outside to meet her. “Miss Bridgerton?”
The woman looked up, her expression brightening. “Hello.”
“I wasn’t expecting you today,” Miss Palmer said with a polite smile. “Is everything alright? Do you need something from the office?”
Eloise opened her mouth to explain—but before she could get a word out, a voice rang across the courtyard.
“Eloise!”
Oliver Crane.
He bolted forward with all the enthusiasm only seven-year-olds seemed capable of, skidding to a stop just short of crashing into her. “Are you picking us up today?”
Eloise crouched, ruffling his hair with one hand. “That’s the plan.”
Amanda was only a few seconds behind, arms already extended to wrap around Eloise’s waist. “We made posters today,” she declared as she hugged her. “Mine has dinosaurs and stars.”
Miss Palmer blinked, caught off-guard—not by the affection, which was plainly mutual—but by the unexpected change in routine.
“Oh,” she said, recovering quickly. “Just to check—you’re on the approved pick-up list?”
“Yes, I should be,” Eloise replied, standing with Amanda still hanging off one arm. “Their father added me a few weeks ago.”
“I’ll just double-check that, if you don’t mind,” Miss Palmer said.
“Of course.”
Before slipping back into the office, Miss Palmer heard Oliver stage-whispering, “She’s Daddy’s girlfriend.”
Eloise groaned quietly, which only made the children giggle more.
Inside, Miss Palmer retrieved the Cranes’ file from the binder. Sure enough, there was Eloise Bridgerton , listed beneath Phillip Crane in clear print. Approved for pick-up. Initialed and dated. No red tape, no issues.
By the time she returned to the gate, the trio was already halfway through a lively conversation about a science experiment gone awry.
“Thank you for confirming,” Miss Palmer said, handing the folder back to the secretary. Then, to Eloise, “You’re all set.”
“Thanks,” Eloise replied, looking a touch pink in the face but smiling. “Sorry for the surprise—Phillip got held up at work and called to ask if I could step in. It’s my first time picking them up alone—I’m still learning the rhythm of it.”
“They seem thrilled,” Miss Palmer said, watching Amanda tug at Eloise’s hand and Oliver bounce along beside her, halfway through a story about their class hamster. “They clearly adore you.”
Eloise blinked, as if caught off guard by the compliment. “Thanks,” she said again, a bit softer this time. “I adore them too.”
And as she walked off with one child on either side and her cheeks still flushed from the earlier revelation, Miss Palmer couldn’t help but think that whatever hopes she'd once nursed had officially crumbled.
Because whatever this was—it wasn’t casual.
She stood at the doorway a moment longer, before the other Year Two teachers filtered out of their classrooms, grabbing cardigans and tote bags and reusable water bottles on their way home.
Miss Byrne raised an eyebrow. “Was that who I think it was?”
Miss Palmer nodded slowly. “Eloise Bridgerton. From the school case.”
Miss Aziz let out a low whistle. “Did not have her on my Crane plot twist bingo card.”
“She’s with him now?” Miss Byrne asked, lips pursed.
“Apparently.” Miss Palmer took her time slipping on her jacket. “According to Oliver, she’s his Daddy’s girlfriend.”
There was a beat of silence, then Miss Aziz let out a soft sigh. “Damn. I was rooting for you.”
Miss Palmer laughed and shook her head, a little wistful but not broken. “It was never really a thing.”
Back in her classroom, she sat for a moment in her tidy, lavender-scented kingdom, watching the light fade through the window. Maybe she’d imagined something once—a spark, a smile, a future she didn’t have to share with thirty children and PTA emails.
But reality had its own kind of poetry.
It was a storybook kind of ending, really. Just… not hers.