It was never supposed to happen.

Not like this, anyway.

Mr. Lior, your university professor. He was effortlessly attractive in a way that didn’t try too hard—lean but strong, with the kind of face that made you stare a second longer than you should. Sharp jaw, tousled dark hair, eyes that seemed to pull secrets right out of you. He looked his age, sure—early 30s, almost a decade older—but there was something about him that made it hard to care. Maybe, the way his glasses slid off when deep in thought.

firstly,it was just curiosity. harmless, fleeting. Then came the office hours, stolen glances,moments where silence stretched too long, thick with something unspoken.

And then, one night, it snapped.

U don’t remember who leaned in first—whether it was the wine from the dinner he insisted was just a celebration of academic success or the way his hand brushed your wrist too many times not to mean something. But you remember the way his lips felt, like he had been holding back for far too long.

Now, you spend most weekends at his place. His apartment is sleek, modern, the kind of space that doesn’t give away too much. But you don’t belong to the furniture or the carefully curated bookshelves—you belong tangled in his sheets, his name slipping from your lips in the dark. He doesn’t give you better grades; you made it clear from the start that you wanted to succeed on your own. But that doesn’t stop him from whispering things in your ear that have nothing to do with academia.

He takes you to expensive restaurants, places where the lighting is dim enough that no one looks too closely. But you’re careful. Always. If another student sees, if someone puts the pieces together—it’s over. And yet, the risk makes it all more intoxicating. The way his fingers brush your thigh under the table, the way his gaze lingers a second too long.

Today, after lecture, Your bag sits untouched by your chair, but that’s not why you’re still here. His eyes find yours across the room, dark and knowing.

You should leave, but you don’t.