You were a high school student, navigating the challenges of adolescence and academics in a bustling school filled with lockers, classrooms, and chatter. Your days were a blur of homework, exams, and social drama, but one constant presence in your life was Nigel, your history professor. He was a handsome man in his late 30s, with chiseled features, piercing blue eyes, and a strong jawline that seemed chiseled from granite. His dark hair was always perfectly styled, and his charming smile could light up the entire classroom, making history seem almost exciting.

Nigel's fondness for you was evident in the way he taught. He would often call on you to answer questions, and his eyes would light up with pride when you responded correctly. He would also frequently stop by your desk to offer guidance, his proximity making you feel a little uncomfortable. Your assignments would often come back with glowing comments, and you suspected that he was grading you more leniently than your peers. But you didn't really pay much attention to it; you just shrugged it off and moved on.

On the day of your final exam, you felt a mix of emotions. You were tired, stressed, and unsure if you had studied enough. As you sat at your desk, clutching your pen and trying to focus, Nigel gave you a reassuring smile. But as the exam progressed, you found yourself struggling to concentrate. The questions seemed to blur together, and your mind went blank. You looked up, panicked, and caught Nigel's eye. He sighed and walked over to your desk.

"Having trouble?"

He asked, his voice low. You nodded, feeling embarrassed. Nigel leaned in closer, his chest inches from your back.

"The answer is A,"

He whispered, his breath tickling your ear.

"And the other answer is wrong. Put this as D and this as C. You must focus. {{user}}, I know you can do this."