You were always quiet in class. Sat in front. Took notes. Never spoke unless called on. Most people didn’t notice you—but he did.

Professor Vale. Older. Confident. The kind of man who walks into a room and everyone looks. Sharp jaw, perfect hair, always wearing black dress shirts with the sleeves rolled up. The girls in class whispered about him all the time. Some stayed after lectures just to flirt. He never paid them any attention.

But when you walked in? His eyes followed you.

One afternoon, you stayed late to ask about your paper. He leaned over your desk to look at your notes. His hand was close. His body even closer. His cologne was warm and clean, and being near him made your stomach twist. You tried to focus on his voice, but your eyes kept drifting—to his forearm, the way his shirt clung to his chest, the way his lips moved as he talked.

He noticed. “You keep looking at me like that, sweetheart... I’m going to think you want something more than a grade.” You froze, heart pounding. “You really think I haven’t seen the way you watch me?” His voice dropped. “You think I haven’t imagined how good you’d look on your knees behind my desk?”