| Across The Hall - Simon “Ghost” Riley
❥ featuring: Simon Riley; the ever stormy, logical maths-man, and (reader); Miss Honey brought to life, the soft, sweet, go-to teacher.
❥ summary: opposites attract, don’t they? Now just imagine that in a school setting, tens of students shipping you together, and they might not be the only ones who see it.
Her classroom always felt a little warmer during fourth period.
Freshmen filled the seats in loose clusters, half awake, half dramatic, all of them comforted by the softness their English teacher carried with her. She moved between desks with that same gentle rhythm she always had, stacking vocabulary worksheets, sliding stray pencils into a jar, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear when she read aloud a passage she loved.
The freshmen adored her. She was the type of teacher who remembered their favorite books, who asked about the weekend theatre show, who said things like “use your quiet voices, darlings—your essays will thank you.”
And because the world has a sense of humor, she taught directly across the hall from him.
The storm to her sunlight, the silence to her softness, the sharp line to her warm curve.
Which is why the room shifted—barely, but noticeably—when the door clicked open and he stepped inside.
He didn’t step into many classrooms. The freshmen went still.
“Mr. Riley?” she said, her voice rising in that light, curious lilt she had only with him. “Everything okay?”
He cleared his throat, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a dry marker that had clearly betrayed him.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he murmured. “I… need a table marker. Mine died.”
She smiled—bright and warm, the kind that hit him like sunlight through old windows.
“Of course. Let me see…” She opened a drawer, rummaging softly. “Blue or black?”
He thought for a moment longer than necessary. “Black.”
She handed it to him with a gentle little gesture, fingertips barely brushing his. Both noticed. Both pretended they didn’t.
“Thank you,” he said, quieter now.
Two students immediately started whispering in the second row.
“They’re so awkward it’s adorable—”
The rest nearly burst into giggles.
Simon flicked his gaze toward them—not harsh, not angry, just that low, unimpressed stare that had silenced juniors, seniors, and possibly a few brave teachers. The room fell quiet in an instant. One freshman mouthed “oh my god” to another.
Miss Honey pressed her lips together, trying (and failing) not to smile.
He lingered a moment longer, just long enough for the soft, careful tension between them to settle again. “Sorry,” he said, gesturing loosely toward the students. “Didn’t mean to… cause chaos.”
“You didn’t,” she said gently. “They’re just being fourteen.”
He nodded once. “Right. Good luck with that.”
A tiny laugh escaped her. “Thank you.”
He left, closing the door softly behind him, as if afraid to disturb the air she’d made gentle.
Class continued. Essays were discussed, metaphors untangled, and freshmen relaxed back into their soft English-period haze. When the bell rang, they gathered their things, whispering excitedly as they disappeared into the hallway.
She stayed behind, as she always did—straightening her desk, stacking the essays she wanted to grade tonight, tucking colored pens into a mug. Her movements were unhurried, thoughtful, like she believed even papers deserved kindness.
Mr. Riley stood there with the marker in hand, as if he’d knocked but forgotten to actually do it.
“Here,” he said, offering it. “Returned in one piece.”
She smiled, softer now, almost private. “I trusted you with it.”
He leaned a shoulder lightly against the frame, watching her gather a few stray papers. “You’re still organizing?”
“I like ending the day with a tidy desk.”
“Must be nice,” he said under his breath. “Mine looks like a war zone.”
“That’s because you teach math,” she teased.
A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. “Fair.”
She reached for another folder on the right corner of her desk, and when she stepped toward the door, the hinge gave its usual high, awful creak—long and sharp, like a complaint.
Simon frowned. “It did that this morning.”
“It’s been doing it for weeks,” she said lightly. “I think it just needs oil.”
“You shouldn’t have to deal with that.” His tone wasn’t stern—just quietly, unexpectedly protective. “If the door’s sticking, it’s not safe. Or convenient.”
“I’ll put in a maintenance ticket—”
“No.” He stopped her gently, almost awkwardly. “I’ll do it. They respond faster when the request comes from… well.” He cleared his throat. “A pest.”
She blinked, touched. “You’re not a pest.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
He held her gaze a moment too long—long enough that something warm flickered in the quiet space between them.
Then he nodded once. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you,” she said softly.
He stepped back to let her through, and she passed close enough that he smelled faint vanilla from her sweater. The hallway lights hummed overhead, casting them both in the soft, end-of-day glow that always made the school feel gentler.
“Goodnight,” she said, turning the key in her door.
“Goodnight,” he echoed, voice low but warm in a way that didn’t match his reputation.
She walked down the hallway. He watched until she turned the corner.
And behind him, the door creaked again—sharper this time—as if offended.
He muttered under his breath.
a/n: absolutely obsessed with this dynamic!! I always love soft reader fics, so it gives me so much happiness writing them. Also, full disclosure, this specific dynamic is from a creator on c.ai, whose name I unfortunately can’t remember, so credits are not mine, thank you for reading! 💞
