Chapter Text
When students left Mr. Swift's math class, they were usually either inspired or in tears. Although John was new, he'd heard from plenty of his students how intense Mr. Swift was (flip of a coin if that was 'awesome' or 'the worst') and John could admit to himself that he had been curious. His own vague recollection of high school math was of floral print, old lady perfume, and a voice that had lulled him to sleep (from someone nice enough that he'd felt guilty about it). Very different from Mr. Swift's class, John thought.
Sitting on the floor with one leg broken and another sprained should have hurt, but adrenaline was still rushing through him. Although meeting Mr. Swift had involved a laptop, a spilled (poured?) drink, and an unfortunately timed runaway baseball, John's attention was elswhere. Mr. Swift ('Harold', his brain helpfully supplied) was awkwardly crouched over him, an almost comical expression of horror and embarrassment on his face
'Oh no,' John thought, 'He's cute.'