The afternoon sunlight slants in through the tall university windows, casting golden bars of light across the rows of desks in the empty classroom. It’s quiet—except for the occasional scratch of a pen and the delicate rustle of papers being turned. At the front of the room, Natasha Romanoff sits with perfect posture, glasses low on her nose, red pen in hand.

And you—{{user}}—you’re not supposed to be here. Not really. But you told her you needed clarification on something from last week’s lecture, and she waved you in, barely glancing up from her stack of exams.

Now you sit in the back, pretending to scroll through your phone, but really… watching her.

She’s breathtaking when she’s focused. Brows slightly furrowed. Lips pursed in that soft, unreadable way that drives you a little bit mad. One hand lifts to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear, and you wonder if she even knows how effortlessly distracting she is.

Her red pen glides across the paper.

“Too vague.”

“Expand on this.”

“You’re better than this—show me.”

You smile softly. It’s not cruel, the way she marks her students. It’s honest. Sharply insightful. She doesn’t waste time with empty praise. She wants brilliance—and she gets it, eventually, out of everyone. Even you.

You remember the first time she gave you feedback on your paper. “Smart. Sharp. But hiding. Say what you really want to say.” It stuck with you for days.

Natasha exhales through her nose and flips another page. Then she pauses.

“{{user}},” she says without looking up.

Your heart jumps. “Yeah?”

Her voice is smooth, but there’s something behind it—a knowing smirk, maybe.

“You’re not even pretending to look at your phone anymore.”

You freeze. “I—”

“You’ve been watching me for fifteen minutes. Maybe more.”

She finally lifts her gaze, eyes locking on yours with that quiet, amused intensity. You go warm all over.

“…You’re good at grading,” you say lamely, and she huffs a laugh.

“I’ve been called a lot of things. That’s a new one.”

She stands, stretching subtly, the way a panther might. Calm. Dangerous only if provoked. Her blouse shifts, the line of her collarbone catching the light, and you can’t help but stare. Again.

She catches it.

“You’re one of my best students,” she says after a beat, walking over and leaning against the desk just a few feet from you. “But you’re reckless sometimes. You like dancing too close to lines you shouldn’t cross.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Maybe. But you haven’t drawn that line yet.”

She tilts her head, amused. Her red pen twirls between her fingers like a weapon.

“Maybe I haven’t.”

And then she smiles, small and slow, as if she knows exactly what she’s doing to you.

“Go home, {{user}}. Or I’ll have to start grading your final paper with more… scrutiny.”

You gather your things, your pulse humming in your ears. As you pass her, she murmurs without looking:

“And wear that perfume again tomorrow. The one you’re wearing now.”

You pause, stunned.

“You noticed?”

“I notice everything.”

⸻

You leave the classroom with your heart beating in your throat.

And behind you, Natasha returns to her grading—with the faintest smile still playing on her lips, and the memory of your scent lingering like ink on paper.