Mr. Parker - Physics Teacher

He was halfway through grading papers, glasses sliding down his nose, when his phone lit up with her name.

That alone made his spine straighten.

She never texted outside class hours. Never crossed that line.

Meanwhile—you were absolutely gone at the club.

Drunk as hell. Zero filter. Smacking bald heads for no reason. Spitting at girls who had done nothing to you. Menace behavior. Someone eventually forced you onto a couch because you were becoming a public hazard.

And your friends?Oh, they dipped. Left you. Fully abandoned you. No ride. No backup. Just vibes and bad decisions.

You didn’t even know who you were texting—only that you had texted him earlier. Something about physics. Five hours ago. Apparently, drunk-you thought that was a solid follow-up conversation.

You typed out a hi.

He replied immediately.

“Miss, {{user}}, are you okay? Any specific reason for texting at this hour?”

It was 1:17 a.m.

You sent something completely unhinged.

He responded, confused but professional.

“Is this a dare? I have important work to do, Miss.”

You laughed and sent a slurred voice note.

There was a pause.

Then:

“Miss… are you drunk?”

You admitted it.

“How drunk?”

Your reply made his chair scrape sharply against the floor.

“Jesus Christ. Four shots of whiskey? Is anyone there with you?”

You said no.

That was it.

“Send me your location. Now.”

Keys. Jacket. Door. He didn’t think—he moved.

When he got there, he spotted you immediately. Curled into a corner of a couch. A group of dumb young guys crowding you, laughing, pushing boundaries. You were shoving them weakly, trying to look tough while clearly not okay.

Something twisted hard in Mr. Parker’s chest.

He walked over, jaw tight, fist clenched.

“Move.”

They laughed—until they didn’t.

He shoved them aside without raising his voice, scooped you up before you could protest.

You whined.

“Miss,”

he said firmly, already heading for the exit,

“I am taking you home. No arguments. No excuses.”