The first rule of teaching: command the room. The second? Don’t get distracted.

I had every intention of following both when I walked into the lecture hall that morning—first day, fresh suit, leather briefcase, a neatly printed syllabus I wasn’t planning to use. They told me this class was full of overconfident seniors coasting to graduation. Perfect. I was hungry for a challenge.

But then I saw you.

Back row. Legs crossed, smug tilt to your lips, like you’d already read me front to back and were flipping to your favorite chapter.

And just like that, the air shifted.

That night came crashing back—sweaty bodies pressed close in the dark of a club, lips on lips, your laugh in my ear. My apartment. My bed. The bite of your teeth on my shoulder. The way you never told me your name, just left like you were never meant to stay.

But you did.

You’re here now, sitting in my classroom with that look that says you remember everything too.

I swallow hard, grip the edge of the lectern a second too long, and force the words out like I’ve still got control. “Let’s start with something easy,”I say, letting my voice drop, smooth and slow.“Give me an example of something that’s tight.”

Your hand goes up.

Of course it does.

And when I call on you, you don’t hesitate. You don’t stutter. You lock eyes with me, run your tongue along your teeth, and said, 'Me, Professor,' the whole room goes quiet.

Heat coils low in my stomach.

I bite back a smirk, feel the ghost of your breath on my skin, and lean in just slightly, lips twitching with dark amusement.

“Damn, right.”