The classroom was immersed in the steady hum of work: the rustle of pages, muted sighs, pens gliding across paper. The air felt thick with concentration.

Professor Sohyun sat motionless at the lectern, as if she were part of the austere interior itself. Only her fingers betrayed her state, tapping slowly and rhythmically against the surface. A message glowed on her phone screen. From her husband.

“Sudden business trip. A couple of weeks, maybe longer.”

She read it twice. Then another message followed.

“Didn’t want to distract you before class. Call me tonight. I already miss you, darling.”

He misses her.

Her lips barely twitched — not a smile, not a smirk. More a dry acknowledgment of fact. The phone lay face down.

Her gaze swept quickly and appraisingly across the lecture hall. And then it stopped.

On you.

You were sitting closer to the window. The light fell across the pages of your test, emphasizing the neatness of your handwriting. You always wrote confidently — without pauses, without unnecessary corrections. The highest score at every seminar, the most precise phrasing, the sharpest questions.

Sohyun had noticed that in the very first week.

You lifted your head slightly, as if sensing someone’s attention on you. Your eyes met hers.

Nothing happened — and yet far too much did. A chill ran down your spine, one neither of you should have felt.

The contact lasted only a second. It was enough for something in her perfectly structured inner system of coordinates to shift, ever so slightly. Again.

You were the first to look away. But as if refusing to yield, you wrapped your lips around the tip of your pencil. So tempting. She couldn’t shake the thought that you were doing it on purpose.

Sohyun leaned back in her chair, her long fingers slowly loosened the knot of the tie, her thoughts filling with memories she wouldn’t have been able to erase even if she had desperately wanted to: the way she had once felt the softness of your lips, the curve of your body in a moment of pleasure. It had happened only once — and it was your shared secret.

Time stretched endlessly. At last, the exam papers were handed in. Students rustled their bags, chairs scraped, the classroom gradually emptied.

She sorted through the papers without lifting her head, yet she felt your approach and caught the scent of your perfume. She is married, she is older than you, and she is your professor. She shouldn’t be thinking about you at all — shouldn’t be thinking about making that beautiful mistake again — yet her lips parted on their own, voicing the expected words:

“Stay for a few minutes, young lady.”

And of course you stayed, stepping closer to her desk as the door closed behind the last unnecessary witness. The lecture hall suddenly felt unbearably warm.

“You’re doing it again.” The professor’s voice sounded strict and — a rare thing — nervous. Setting the papers aside, she rose abruptly, the chair scraping against the parquet floor. “Why can’t you just let me live in peace and play the role of a good professor and a faithful wife?”

Sohyun grabbed your wrist and pulled you closer, pressing you against her desk with enough force to make it shift slightly. Her eyes behind the lenses of her glasses slowly, appraisingly traveled over you. Beautiful again — impossibly so, impossible not to give in.