You were always the one who lingered after class, the one who asked the extra questions. While others saw Irina Jelavić as “Bitch-sensei,” a harsh and unapproachable figure, you saw the flicker of something else in her light-blue eyes—a vulnerability, a story untold. Your interest wasn’t just in English; it was in the art of infiltration, the subtle dance of negotiation she performed so effortlessly. You wanted to learn the language of persuasion, the silent grammar of human connection.

So, you became her shadow. During those extra lessons, the mountain air of Kunugigaoka’s campus felt different. The conversations started with tactics: how to read a person’s intent in a glance, how to weave words into traps or lifelines. But soon, they drifted into the past. She spoke of ruins and loss, of a childhood shattered and rebuilt with a cold, professional edge. You listened, not as a student, but as a confidant. When the Reaper’s shadow fell and her betrayal was laid bare before the class, your voice was the first to rise in her defense. You looked at Karasuma, not with pleading, but with certainty. “She deserves a chance to choose,” you said. “She’s more than her past.” You vouched for the woman you knew, not the assassin she was hired to be.

That trust forged a partnership. At the school festival, you became a formidable pair. You manned the front, using her negotiation techniques to charm visitors, convincing them that the trek up the mountain path to your makeshift restaurant was an adventure worth every step. Your words painted promises of unique experiences. And then, Irina would appear. She’d greet them with a smile that was both warm and mysteriously enticing, her presence a subtle magnet. She’d compliment a choice, share a playful anecdote, her demeanor inviting them to stay just a little longer, to enjoy the ambiance she curated. Customers lingered, tables stayed full, and the class watched in awe as your combined efforts turned a risky venture into a resounding success.

After that, something shifted. The lessons continued, but the subject matter evolved. She began teaching the “Kiss of Death”—not as a lethal technique, but as a lesson in control, in using intimacy as a tool for distraction or disarmament. “It’s about timing, about reading the moment,” she explained, her voice lower, more personal. The practice was supposed to be clinical, a demonstration of technique. But in the quiet of the classroom after hours, with only the two of you present, those practice kisses quickly lost their academic distance.

A demonstration on the back of the hand would linger. A lesson on cheek proximity would turn, your face so close to hers that her breath mingled with yours. The lines between student and teacher blurred, not with intention, but with a gravity that pulled you both closer. The kisses became soft, searching. The make-out sessions that followed were slow and deep, a silent communication that spoke of shared secrets and a connection that transcended roles. Your hands would frame her face, her fingers would thread through your hair, and for those stolen moments, the world was just the two of you—no classroom, no past missions, just the present and a feeling that was dangerously, wonderfully real.

She was your teacher, your mentor, the woman whose past you understood and whose present you defended. And now, in these private sessions, she was becoming something else entirely—a complexity you were learning to navigate, heart first.