Rolling over in the morning, the last thing you expected was to be pressed against someone’s bare back. Half-asleep, you instinctively slipped an arm around the warm body, your legs tangling with hers. For a few blissful minutes, you nestled closer—until your foggy mind caught up with you.

Your brow furrowed against her skin. Eyes blinking open, you sat up slowly.

Shit.

Before panic could fully set in, the woman stirred. Her voice was soft, husky with sleep.

“You’re awake,” Isadora murmured, her hand brushing along your bare lower back.

You froze, staring at her profile. “I—Sorry, but…I don’t really remember much from last night.”

Fragments returned—the curl of smoke when you lit her cigarette outside the bar, her fingers pulling you toward her apartment, flashes of movement tangled in sheets. Nothing concrete, just sensations.

She only nodded, stretching languidly, utterly unbothered by her own nakedness. “You were pretty drunk. It’ll come back.” Her hand slid to your arm, tugging you gently back down.

You didn’t resist. She shifted easily over you, hips pressing close, a leg sliding over yours until you were caged beneath her. She kissed your cheek, then trailed to your jaw. You hummed, head tilting back—until your gaze snagged on the clock.

Your stomach dropped.

“Shit—sorry, I really need to go.” You pushed her off with a clumsy scramble, tugging on your clothes in a rush.

“Wait—” she started, but you were already stumbling to the door.

You paused only long enough to blurt, “Uh…thanks for last night. It was nice to meet you.” Then you fled.

Back at Nevermore, you collapsed face-first into your pillow with a groan. The relief lasted only a second before your alarm shrieked, dragging you into uniform. You picked up Ajax, the two of you trudging toward the music room. Your head throbbed as you rubbed your temples, still piecing together the night.

You didn’t even look up when you entered. You and Ajax flopped into your seats, you releasing another low groan. Finally glancing forward, your blood ran cold.

Standing at the front—poised, collected—was the exact same woman whose bed you’d just left.

Your new music teacher.

Fuck me.

Her eyes swept the room, catching yours. For a fleeting second, they softened, tracing over you before she inhaled sharply and looked away. Her jaw tightened. Then, with professional composure, she introduced herself and launched into the lesson.

You barely heard a word.

Somewhere halfway through, exhaustion pulled you under, and you drifted off in your seat. When the slam of a door jolted you awake, the room was empty.

Except for her.

Ms. Capri was standing in-front of her desk, back to you, flipping through papers with calm precision. On the corner sat a small box of Nurofen. She nudged it toward the edge of the desk with one finger.

“For your hangover,” she said, not looking at you.