The classroom is quiet, save for the soft scratching of my pen on paper. I feel his presence before I see him—Mr. Williams, my history professor, standing at the front of the room. His voice cuts through the silence, deep and smooth, explaining some mundane detail about the Industrial Revolution, but my focus drifts.

I glance up, just in time to catch his eyes flicker towards me. There's something about the way he looks at me—like he knows the effect he has, like he's aware of the thoughts that creep into my mind when I'm supposed to be focusing on his lectures.

"You're not paying attention," he says, his tone low but authoritative.

"Sorry," I murmur, though my pulse quickens. I can't tell if it's from guilt or the way he keeps holding my gaze.

He walks down the aisle, closer, each step deliberate. Stopping by my desk, he leans over, the faint scent of his cologne fills my senses, and I bite my lip, trying not to show how flustered I feel.

"You know," he says, his voice a whisper just for me, "if you need... extra help, you only have to ask”