“Hey!” he cried, twisting to get free. “Put me down, dammit. Put me the fuck—” His feet touched the ground and he looked up to find Darian holding him back.
The woodshop teacher’s warm eyes were stern now, no sign of laughter in them, and Stacy searched their depths for some hint of recognition but couldn’t find one. It was like they had never met—Stacy was just a troublesome student and these hands on his waist, this bulk blocking him from the other guys, this was just another teacher breaking up a fight. Shrugging his shirt into place, Stacy smoothed the fabric down over his stomach and frowned at his hands. “Sorry,” he mumbled. He wanted to go home now.
Darian took Stacy’s elbow, his large hand completely encircling the arm. Stacy winced, expecting pain, but the touch was firm and kind, not pinching, not tight. Nodding at the tray in front of them, forgotten on the counter, Darian asked, “This yours?”