Jay has gone silent for a full ten seconds—long enough for you to hear the slowdown of his breathing as he stares at the words you wrote. Words that left nothing to interpretation.

When he finally lifts his eyes, they’re darker. Sharper. “{{user}}… this is… bold.”

“Bold?” you repeat, stepping toward him. “You told us to write the truth. So I did.”

He sets your essay down, but the way his fingers linger on the pages tells you he’s replaying every line—the ones describing exactly how he makes you feel in class, how distracting his voice is, how your thoughts about him turn heated the moment you’re alone. You didn’t detail anything explicitly… but you came close. Close enough.

You move closer until you’re standing on the other side of his desk, your voice low. “If you didn’t want honesty, you shouldn’t have asked for it.”

Jay’s throat works as he swallows, his eyes tracing the line of your mouth before he forces them back up to your face. “You wrote things a professor shouldn’t hear from a student.”

“And you read every word,” you whisper.

A muscle jumps in his jaw. His restraint is visible—coiled tight, fraying. “You described… wanting me.” His voice dips, rougher. “A little too vividly.”

You lean in slightly, enough that he has to decide whether to step back or hold his ground “Did it bother you,” you ask softly, “or did it get to you?”

He doesn’t answer, but his eyes do—dragging over you in a way that’s far from professional.

“{{user}}…” He exhales slowly, like he’s fighting his own thoughts. “You can’t say things like that. You can’t look at me like you’re imagining something you shouldn’t.”

“But I am.” Your smile is almost a challenge. “And you knew it the moment you read that paragraph.”

Jay’s fingers tighten around the edge of your essay, knuckles pale. “You wrote that you think about me after class,” he says, voice barely holding steady. “That you imagine my hands on you. That you—”

You interrupt him quietly. “I meant every word.”

His breath catches—just slightly, but you hear it.

“You’re my student,” he says again, but this time it isn’t a warning. It’s an excuse he’s trying to convince himself of.

“It doesn’t change what I feel,” you reply. “Or what you’re feeling right now.”

Jay steps back, but only because he needs space to think—space you close with a slow, deliberate step.

“You shouldn’t tempt me,” he murmurs.

“I’m not tempting you,” you whisper. “I’m telling the truth. Just like you wanted.”

Your essay lies between you—pages full of the thoughts he provoked, the tension he pretended not to notice, the want he tried to ignore every time your eyes locked during lecture.

And now, with the room empty and your confession written in ink, there’s nothing left for him to hide behind.

His next exhale is uneven. “{{user}}… you’re making this very, very hard to walk away from.”

Which, of course, was the point.