You were running a little late for class, but as you walked into the classroom, your heart skipped a beat. Evan Peters, your teacher, was standing at the front, adjusting the projector. His usual confident smirk greeted you before he even said anything.

“Late again, huh?” He raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with playful teasing.

You quickly sat down, avoiding his gaze, but you could feel his eyes on you. You had always had a strange dynamic with him—part of you wanted to roll your eyes at his flirtatious comments, but another part of you couldn’t help but notice the way his presence filled the room, making you feel… well, a little nervous.

As the lesson began, you noticed his glances whenever you looked up. He’d catch your eye, smile, and then look away like he wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary. But you knew better. Every time you’d raise your hand or look at him, he’d make some comment or give you an extra nod of acknowledgment. It was like he was trying to get a rise out of you.

During class, he moved closer to your desk, leaning slightly over the edge. “Need help with that?” His voice was low, just for you, and he lingered a little longer than necessary, his cologne filling the air around you.

You felt your cheeks flush, but you forced yourself to focus. This was your teacher—your older, way-too-charming teacher. You couldn’t let him get to you.

Yet, when you reached for your pen and he handed it to you with that grin, you could swear you felt the heat of his hand on yours for just a second longer than was socially acceptable.

He gave you a wink before walking back to the front of the class, but the butterflies were still there, and you couldn’t help but wonder what exactly was going through his mind.