You meet him at a teacher-parent conference

Meet the teacher night, no doubt known as meet the F@cking parents of the sh!tty brats night to the teachers, is a night you've always hated. One or both of your parents might actually want to go and talk about why your grades are as they are and why aren't they higher.

Not wanting you to feel 'pressured' you've been left in the hallway while the ancient powers of your life discuss what to do about or with you. Needless to say you're not happy to be here, and exchange meaningful looks with other students looking equally miserable as overly-interested parents drag them along via the invisible shackles of family.

"Are your parents in with Mister Fudge?" a deep voice asks. Without looking up you give a slight nod, studying the tiles in front of you. One of them is cracked, you notice. If you were one of those goody-goody types eager to kiss-up you'd probably run off to tell someone. Instead you nudge it with you foot to see if you can pry it up.

"I feel kind of sorry for him. What kind of a name is Fudge?"

Shrugging you give up on the tile and sigh, looking around for something, anything, to either teleport you out of here or make it bearable.

"I'm Jacob Wright. Overly-concerned parent," the man says, and you turn your eyes to him for the first time, your jaw nearly dropping in shock.

Surely no parent is supposed to be so hot, you think, as you stare at his face. You can't think of a single celebrity to compare him with; he seems to trump them all in looks. Blond hair that is lustrous and full, showing no signs of receding or baldness like most men of parental age; radiant green eyes that seem to shine out at you with interest; taut skin that is clean-shaven and seemingly poreless as it clings to the strong bones beneath; his cleft chin juts confidently forth; and lips that seem designed for kissing begin to quirk and then smile, revealing strong, even white teeth. God, are those dimples?

"Cat got your tongue? Don't want to talk?" he asks, smiling benevolently. Priests are supposed to smile benevolently too, but none of them made your mouth go dry or made your insides quiver. You stare at him and find yourself blushing, realizing at the last moment that he'd been holding his hand out for you to shake. You begin to raise yours, only for his to drop.

"It's alright, I've been bored. Talking to one boring teacher after another on this useless night. I only did it because my ex demanded I go in her place and my kids have been troublemakers lately. The curse of things coming too easily," he says, sighing.

His eyes remain fixed on your face, though they've occasionally strayed downwards, and you can tell that although he's talking at you he's really talking to you, giving you a chance to recover your equilibrium and know that he's friendly, not just some boring old parent condescendingly talking to you.

"I.... I... I'm Jenny Rainwood," you stammer, blushing anew as you struggle with the words, then even more furiously when you add, "I'm a student here."

The man's smile widens just a little. "Really? You're not a teacher? I'm sorry, I'm kidding," he says, patting your knee in apology. Though his hand doesn't linger, and the touch was perfectly innocent you feel a warm spot linger where he touched you, and find yourself gulping, eager to say more, to keep his attention.

"My... my parents are in there. With Mister Fudge," you add, mentally kicking yourself. How could you be so idiotic? Why can't you think of anything interesting to say?

Voices become louder behind the door, approaching the hallway. Realizing your parents are about to come out and your time with this gorgeous man is about to end you make one last stab at enticing conversation.

"My parents are coming out. With Mister Fudge. From the classroom. This was their last meeting."

Oh God!

Nodding at you like you'd said something interesting he holds out his hand again, then stops as if remembering how you didn't want to shake before. Instead he pats your leg above the knee.

"I'm sure you teacher had only the best to say about you," he says, squeezing your leg re-assuring, then sliding forward on the bench before standing up, breaking contact just as the classroom door opens.

"...see what can be done."

"...room for improvement."

"....thank you for seeing us."

Your parents words seem to trip over themselves as they all but splay themselves at the feet of this master of your life. Or at least of your mathematics class. The fact that you're still staring at the burning place where he'd touched you makes most of it vanish before it reaches your ears.

"Oh! Oh my!"

"Are you... Are you Jacob Wright!"

"Yes, that's me," the man smiles, and you snap your eyes up to him again. He's standing in front of the door, though not blocking it, and you feel the extra distance between you keenly, mourning the loss of proximity.

"Oh this is an honor!"

"Your father's done so many great things for this city."

"I had no idea you had a child going here!"

The voices seem like nonsense to your brain, their sources unknown as you gaze upon his form, feeling stupid and awkward on your bench, wishing everyone but Jacob Wright would leave.

"Well, my father tries to do his best for the people of the city," Jacob assures the adults, and they proceed to babble some more at him for another minute or so. At last he gently distances himself from the conversation, subtly telling them that they should go, and like magic they do as he says, passing you as if you aren't there.

Jacob gazes down at you one last time, taking your breath away. His kissable lips quirk, and he says, "Shouldn't you be going with them?"