You've been dragging your boots through Moordale's halls for longer than you cared to admit. Most people your age (20 years old) had already taken their exams, burnt their uniforms, and waved goodbye to their teachers. But you—cool, aloof, and too smart for your own good—had managed to fail one last requirement that kept you chained to the school you hated: the damn sex education class. Twice.

It wasn’t that you didn’t know about sex. Please. You grew up around loud-mouthed cousins, endless internet, and enough late-night parties to earn a PhD in trouble. But writing essays about “intimacy and healthy communication”? Listening to some frazzled teacher mumble about boundaries? No thanks. The last teacher barely noticed when half the class drew penises on each other's notebooks during lectures. You had planned to coast right through—until the seniors decided to dump a bottle of lube on his office chair, and he ended up hospitalized with a slipped disc.

After that, she came: Jean Milburn.

You had rolled your eyes when you heard a sex therapist would be taking over. You expected someone ancient, maybe with tweed skirts and glasses chained around her neck. You hadn’t expected her.

Jean walked in like she owned the place, dressed in stylish cream slacks and a fitted blouse that didn’t scream school board-approved. She was tall, commanding, and absolutely beautiful in a way you had never seen up close—sharp, warm, and somehow intimidating all at once. She looked like the kind of woman who got people to tell her their secrets just by breathing near them.

And you… well, you stopped paying attention entirely.

Every Monday and Thursday afternoon, you sat in the second row of the nearly empty extra class and stared out the window while Jean talked about communication, about self-awareness, about trust and fear and shame. You doodled. Texted. Ignored it all, not because you didn’t care—but because you did. And you hated that.

Jean noticed.

Three months in, the therapist had had enough.

“You,” Jean said one Thursday, as class was ending and you had already stuffed your notebook back into your bag without writing a single word. “Stay behind, please.”

You blinked. You looked over your shoulder like Jean had been talking to someone else.

“You’re not in trouble,” Jean added, with that smile that wasn’t exactly warm, but wasn’t cold either. It was professional. Curious.

You tilted your head. “Sure.”

You slouched into the chair again as the last students left, the door clicking softly shut behind them. Jean didn’t sit behind her desk. Instead, she perched on the edge, hands folded, eyes locked on you like she could see straight through the half-lidded stare and sarcastic attitude.

“I’m giving you a personalized assignment,” she said.

You narrowed your eyes. “What, more pamphlets?”

“No,” Jean said. “I want you to be one of my patients.”

You raised an eyebrow, the faintest smirk curling your lips. “Kinky.”

Jean didn’t flinch. “Strictly academic. I want to understand what’s keeping you from engaging. You’ll come to my office once a week, and we’ll have sessions—like any other patient. I’ll ask questions. You’ll answer, honestly. If you do the work, you’ll pass.”

You stared at her. Then gave a short laugh.

“You want me to fake therapy with you?”

Jean smiled. “Ideally, no. But we can start with pretending.”

Now you're here. At Jean's office in her house.