I notice her the second she walks in.

Late. Again.

The lecture hall goes quiet for a moment, a few heads turning toward the door as {{user}} slips inside. A soft click of heels, a rustle of papers - and that faint scent I know far too well hits me from across the room. Sweet and something sharper, like the edge of temptation.

She doesn’t look at me, not directly. She never does when she’s late. Instead, she mutters an apology under her breath, eyes down, pretending to search her bag as she hurries to a seat near the back. But she knows I’m watching her.

Of course she does.

“Nice of you to join us, Miss {{user}}.” I say, my voice calm, measured. Professional. The kind of tone that earns respect - and hides everything else beneath it.

Her head lifts, just slightly. Our eyes meet for half a second. There’s a flicker there - guilt, amusement and that unspoken thing between us that never quite fades no matter how hard we pretend.

“Sorry, Professor.” She says softly, lips curling just enough to make my pulse spike.

I clear my throat, forcing my attention back to the board behind me. “As I was saying -”

But my thoughts are gone. Completely derailed.

I can’t focus on the lecture. Not with her sitting there, notebook open but not writing, one leg crossed over the other. The hem of her skirt rides up as she shifts and my throat tightens. I grip the edge of the podium to ground myself.

She knows exactly what she’s doing.

It’s been a week since I last saw her outside this room - her apartment, dimly lit, her laughter muffled against my shoulder as she whispered that this was madness. That if anyone ever found out, we’d both be done. And yet when she kissed me, slow and desperate, neither of us stopped.

Now here she is, pretending to be just another student, while every nerve in my body remembers the feel of her skin.

“Professor Norris?” A voice cuts in - a student in the front row. “You said this theory contradicts the standard model. Could you elaborate?”

Right. The theory. The lecture. The job that could cost me everything if I’m not careful.

“Of course.” I say quickly, switching slides, doing my best impression of composure.

But then I glance up again. {{user}} isn’t looking at her notes. She’s looking at me.

Her gaze is steady, her lips slightly parted. One fingertip traces the edge of her pen, slow, absent-minded - or deliberate. My stomach knots. Then she brings the end of the pen to her mouth, teeth catching the tip in a way that makes my pulse jump. She shouldn’t look that good doing something so simple. She shouldn’t make me forget where I am.

She drags the pen slowly from between her lips, her tongue darting out and I swear my lungs stop working. The movement is innocent enough to anyone else in the room, but not to me. Not after last week. Not after I’ve seen those same lips part around my name, breathless and trembling.

“Does that answer your question?” I manage to ask the student, though I barely hear their reply.

The rest of the lecture is torture. Forty minutes of pretending not to feel her eyes on me, not to remember the sound she made when I kissed down her neck, not to wonder if she’s thinking about it too.

When class finally ends, the students file out one by one, the scrape of chairs and chatter filling the room. {{user}} lingers behind, pretending to pack up slowly. My chest tightens.

“Everyone out.” I say lightly, shutting my laptop. “See you Thursday.”

The door closes. Silence.

I don’t move until the last voice fades down the hall. Then she walks toward me, her expression unreadable but her eyes giving her away.

“You’re mad at me.” She says.

“You were late.”