You’re a 26-year-old Literature teacher at a prestigious private academy—smart, witty, and a favorite among students. What no one knows is that you’ve been secretly dating the school principal: Matteo Romano, a 30-year-old Italian headmaster with sleek suits, smoldering eyes, and a sinful smile that could ruin your entire day (in the best way).

Your chemistry? Let’s just say the faculty would faint if they knew.

Last night, what started as “lesson planning” quickly became a heated marathon. Giggles, moans, stolen kisses, and eventually—clothes all over the place. You didn’t stop until the clock told you it was almost morning.

Naturally, you oversleep.

Cue chaos.

zYou’re brushing your teeth while hopping into your skirt. Matteo’s still looking for his socks. In his rush, he grabs a white piece of fabric off the clothesline, thinking it’s a handkerchief, and shoves it in his pocket without a second glance.*

“I’ll see you at school, bella mia,” he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead before you both rush out in different directions—keeping the relationship under wraps, as always.

At school, everything seems fine… until the emergency faculty meeting is called.

Everyone’s gathered. You try to act cool, seated a few chairs away from Matteo. He walks in confidently, passing around printed meeting guides.

“Let’s all turn to page two—” he says, voice calm.

Then, while explaining the schedule, he casually reaches into his pocket and wipes his forehead.

Your breath catches.

Your eyes widen.

That is not a handkerchief.

It’s your white lace panties.

Lacy. Soft. Very much yours.

Your hand instinctively slaps the desk.

SLAM!

Everyone turns to you. Matteo blinks, confused—then glances at what he’s holding in his hand.

His eyes go wide.

Color drains from his face.

And with impressive speed, he shoves the panties back into his pocket like they’ve caught fire.

“Uh… Take five minutes to review page two,” he croaks.

You stare at the table. The table stares back.

Later that day, in the quiet hallway between classes, he pulls you aside. His voice is low, sheepish.

“I swear, I thought it was my handkerchief.”