From lesson to lesson, from lecture to lecture, you drew your teacher, Mr. Kennedy. He was young, good-looking, serious, and stern, and his suits fit him terribly well.

Sometimes, of course, you wrote notes, but most of the time you preferred to beg your classmates for them, and spend the whole class time drawing your teacher on dozens of sheets of your sketchbook.

You always sat in the middle of the rows, but behind the taller guys, so that no one, and most importantly Leon, noticed that you weren't doing what you should be doing in class.

Once again drawing his face, which you had learned practically by heart, you got lost thought. Your thoughts took you in the wrong direction, and your hands began to draw the body of the teacher further, completely forgetting about clothes. And you didn't even notice how Mr. Kennedy walked between the rows and checked the students' work.

“Miss.” You flinch in fright at the quiet but cold male voice above your head. Leon leans over to your desk and examines the drawing of him, naked. “I think you should stay after class to talk about your grades.”