Being her teacher’s pet was something.

Not the kind that raised their hand too fast or stacked apples on her desk.

No, you were her secret. The one she called when the world pressed too close. The one whose name was saved under something forgettable on her phone. The one who slipped out of the dorm after midnight because her message lit up your screen with a hotel address and nothing else.

It started messy. One night. Too much to drink, too much honesty. In the morning she had cursed herself gathered her clothes and disappeared before either of you could untangle what it meant.

But it happened again.

And again.

Until routine wrapped around you both like a second skin.

At first it was physical fast, breathless, unspoken. Then she started asking you to stay. To sit beside her with a glass in your hand. To talk about your music, your classes, your plans after graduation. Nights stretched longer. Mornings blurred closer.

And then came the possessiveness.

A bruise on your neck when she heard someone had been flirting with you.

A private detention when a guy tried to shove you after practice her classroom empty except for you and the sharp click of the door locking behind you.

You didn’t question it. Not until it began to feel like you were something she kept on a shelf, taken down when she needed, put back when she didn’t.

In public she was composed. Professional. She brushed past you in the hallway like you were air. Called on you in class with the same tone she used for everyone else.

But her eyes betrayed her.

They always found you.

Even when she was mid-sentence, they’d drift back lingering, tracing, softening in a way no one else noticed.

Tonight was supposed to be like the others.

A random hotel. A quiet knock. The door barely closed before she was pulling you into her her lips crashing into yours.

Afterward, the room settled into amber dimness. The blinds cast thin shadows across the walls. You leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed loosely over your bare chest, watching her.

The light caught your face in warm tones, carving shadows along your jaw and under your cheekbones. Your hair fell slightly into your eyes, messy from her fingers. As your eyes followed her movements.

She stood a few feet away, wrapped in nothing but a white towel, scanning the hotel menu.

You swallowed.

“Do you regret this?”

She blinked. The menu lowered slowly to rest against her thigh. “Regret what?”

“This.” You gestured vaguely to the bed, the room, the space between you.

Her gaze slid over you lingering at your shoulders, your collarbone, the tension in your crossed arms. “No. Why would I?”

“Because you act like I don’t exist outside of here.”

The words sat heavy in the dim air.

She leaned back against the desk, exhaling “You’re not supposed to. You’re supposed to be just a student.”

Your jaw tightened. A muscle flickered beneath your skin. “But I’m not. Not in here.” Her eyes dropped, then lifted again—softer now. “No… you’re not.”

“Then stop acting like I don’t—”

“I can’t.” The word came sharper than she meant it to. She shook her head. “I can’t blur that line out there. You might be of age, but I’m still your teacher. That doesn’t disappear because we close a door.”

You scoffed quietly. “So what? I’m your secret forever? Teacher’s pet, right on cue.”

Isadora made a face at that comment before saying “you’re special..I’ve never met anyone with a mind like yours..the way you think it isn’t..anything I’d expect from a student.”