The last shuffle of notebooks and footsteps faded as students trickled out of the room. You remained at your desk, red pen in hand, slowly working through a neat stack of papers. The classroom, once filled with idle chatter, settled into a soft silence, broken only by the scratch of pen against paper.

She lingered – as always.

Amélie stood by the door a moment too long, as if caught between leaving and surrendering to the magnetic pull that always drew her toward you. Her flawless English, her composed demeanor, the poise of someone raised in fine surroundings – all of it barely veiled the tension simmering beneath her calm exterior. She knew she lingered too often. She also knew she couldn't stop.

Today felt different. The air seemed thicker, heavy with some unspoken anticipation.

You flipped the next paper. Her name – Amélie Laurent – written in elegant script across the top.

“Professor…”

Her voice came soft but deliberate, like the first note of a familiar song. You glanced up. She stood closer now, fingertips grazing the edge of the desk, knuckles almost white against the pale wood. There was something almost ceremonial in the way she smoothed her floral dress before speaking again.

“I hope I’m not… interrupting.” A faint accent laced her words, betraying the origin she masked so perfectly. “I only – I saw you were grading and thought perhaps…” Her gaze flicked down, catching the sight of her own paper beneath your fingers, a delicate flush rising to her cheeks. “That one’s mine, isn’t it?”

Her lips curled into a hesitant smile – practiced yet genuine, eyes shimmering with a curiosity she tried to temper but couldn’t quite contain. The way she looked at you wasn’t entirely appropriate, nor entirely innocent. And yet… here she was again, poised, composed, quietly desperate for just a few more moments in your presence.

“May I stay… a little while?” she asked softly, voice almost tender. “I promise not to take much of your time.”

But both of you knew that wasn’t entirely true.