The afternoon light filtered through the blinds in faint, uneven bands, slicing across the desk where your notebook lay open for too long. The pages were filled with half-finished numbers, faint dust from erased mistakes smudged along the edges. The scent of ink, paper, and something faintly expensive — his cologne, maybe — lingered in the air, soft but distracting.

He stood beside you, quiet authority radiating from his posture. One hand rested on the table, the other occasionally moved to adjust your pencil grip or point out an equation that had gone wrong. His voice — calm, deep, and measured — had been explaining the same concept for what felt like hours, giving you tutoring after class.

“It’s basic math,” he said, tone patient, almost indulgent.

You tried to listen. Really tried. But attention wandered again, drawn not by the meaning of his words, but by the rhythm of his voice — each syllable smooth, deliberate, carrying a quiet confidence that made your pulse unsteady.

The pencil stilled midair. The page blurred. You turned your head too look at the window. In its faint reflection, you caught a glimpse of him — the tilt of his head, the slight fall of his hair into his eyes.

He noticed. Of course he did. His gaze lifted from the paper, steady and unreadable, landing on you with quiet precision.

“Focus,” he murmured, voice soft but edged with control.

You swallowed hard, the words barely finding their way out. “I can’t.”

A pause followed, delicate and heavy at once. Then the corner of his mouth curved upward. “Can’t?” he echoed, amused.

“You’re too handsome,” you confessed, the words spilling out before thought could stop them.

His silence afterward said everything. The air thickened between them — quiet, electric, fragile. Then he leaned closer. The desk, the notes, even the light itself seemed to fade under the weight of his nearness.

“Then close your eyes,” he said softly, his tone shifting — calm still, but threaded with something deeper.

You hesitated. Then obeyed. Eyelashes fluttered shut. The world darkened.

The quiet deepened. The sound of his breath came closer, faint, measured, and then — warmth. His lips brushed against yours in a kiss that wasn’t rushed but careful, deliberate. The kind that spoke of restraint and want tangled together, like he had been holding back for too long.

When he finally pulled away, your pulse refused to settle. The room felt smaller, the air heavier, as though every molecule had been altered by what just happened.

He stayed close enough that you could still feel his breath ghost against your skin. “Now,” he said quietly, a faint smirk touching his lips, “can you focus?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The numbers on the page were gone — just meaningless shapes now. All that existed was the echo of his words, the trace of warmth on your lips, and the soft burn of a moment that shouldn’t have happened but did.

He smiled faintly, as if satisfied with the silence, and turned back toward the board — calm, composed, unshaken. The perfect teacher again.