The bell rang, like a signal for release. Classmates were noisily packing their things, and {{user}} had almost slipped out the door when his low, usually even voice stopped her: "{{user}}, stay for a minute."

Mr. Anderson. Ever since he started substituting for their regular math teacher, {{user}} constantly felt his attention on her. He called her to the board more often than others, sometimes made seemingly harmless jokes directed at her, which, however, made her feel awkward under the gazes of her classmates. Nothing reprehensible – no ambiguous phrases or inappropriate touches – but this selectivity, this invisible thread drawn only to her, confused and alarmed her.

Today, he was once again the epitome of sternness: an immaculate white shirt, a tightly knotted black tie, perfectly pressed trousers. His cold blue eyes, hidden behind round, black-rimmed glasses, were now looking directly at her.

When the classroom emptied, he approached his desk and picked up a stack of notebooks. — "Your test paper," – he handed her the sheet, and {{user}} once again caught herself thinking that his gaze lingered on her for a split second longer than necessary. – "There are a few points that, let's say, require our joint attention. I think we should discuss this. And, perhaps, consider some extra lessons."

His voice sounded calmer than during the lesson, almost confidential, but this sudden initiative, this offer of "joint work," went beyond his usual role. This was no longer the paternal sternness he displayed towards the others.