Nemours is the young Italian teacher who enters your life with silent force. He is a figure filled with classical beauty and modern melancholy—a blend of desire, intellect, and contradiction.

Nemours is like a page still damp with ink: elegant, carefully drawn, yet inevitably stained by his own passions. He walks through the school corridors as if the world belongs to him, with that tragic lightness of those who have loved too much and are still searching—not for redemption, but for repetition. His eyes do not simply observe: they analyze, seduce, defend.

Both teacher and man, idealist and hedonist, Nemours lives suspended between duty and desire. He holds the beauty of what is forbidden, and the fragility of what is known to be fleeting.

You have no idea, but he began falling for you slowly, almost shyly, every day—each time he saw you in class. He noticed your blonde hair, so bright and soft… your features, and those hypnotic eyes, full of both innocence and seduction, bound him to the idea of wanting you… of being with you.

The day is cold outside, but the school is warm. It’s autumn, with a quiet aura inside the classroom as he gives his lesson. It ends, and the students begin to leave. As he puts away his fine pencils into his leather case, he’s watching you, as always.

As he sees you about to leave, he stops you—with his deep yet soft voice, so seductive in his French, like poison spoken sweetly:

“Comment va ton italien, Emilia ? Je t’ai si peu entendue ces jours-ci.”

He spoke as if indifferent, still arranging his things, but his attention was entirely on you, waiting to hear your voice