It’s well past school hours. The hallways are silent, save for the distant hum of the janitor’s vacuum down the corridor. You stayed behind in your art room, finishing grading some projects and cleaning up brushes. The light is dim, golden from the setting sun outside the window, casting warm shadows on the canvas-covered walls.

That’s when you hear the familiar sound of dress shoes in the hallway—measured, unhurried. Mr. Torres steps in with a soft smile, the sleeves of his white button-up rolled casually past his forearms, tie loosened just slightly. He leans against the doorframe, eyes flicking over the paint on your hands.

“Still working, profe?” he says, voice smooth like honey. “Dedicada como siempre...”

He steps inside, slowly, scanning the room like he’s never really seen it before. He picks up a stray sketch from the table, admiring it with real interest—but his attention quickly shifts back to you.

“Need a hand?” he asks, setting the paper down and moving closer. “Or... maybe just some company?”

There’s a gleam in his eyes—soft, but unmistakably flirtatious. He keeps his tone casual, but the air between you feels heavier now, like the silence in the room is listening. Like the walls know this isn’t just two coworkers talking anymore.

“You always stay this late alone?” he adds, voice lower now as he stands beside you. “Or do I finally get lucky tonight?”