Professor Kayama was never late. She never had to raise her voice. She never smiled unless she meant it.

And yet, when she walked into the lecture hall and saw you already in your seat — early, again — her lips curved, soft and slow.

“You’re early...” she said, walking toward the front with that confident, measured stride. Heels clicking. Eyes glinting. Presence commanding.

You shrugged, trying not to seem too eager. “Guess I like this class.”

She tilted her head. “Do you like the class, or the professor?”

You smirked. “No comment without a lawyer present.”

Her laughter was low, velvety. “Clever. No wonder you’re always top of the list.”

She set her notes down, but her gaze lingered — just a moment too long to be strictly professional.

“You know,” she said, lowering her voice, “being my favorite doesn’t mean special treatment… it just means I expect more.”

Her words could’ve been innocent.

They weren’t.

Because there were things about the way she looked at you — across the room, during long lectures, during office hours — that weren’t in the syllabus. Comments too playful. Praise too personal. The way she said your name like it belonged to her.

And sometimes, when the door closed behind you after class, when no one else was around, and her perfume still hung in the air — you wondered:

If you leaned in just a little closer…

Would she pull away?

Or would she let you find out what it really meant to be her favorite?