He never touched you.

Not once.

Not even when your hand brushed his while turning in your paper. Not even when you leaned over his desk with that tilt to your voice, asking questions you already knew the answers to.

Mr. Larsson was untouchable. Strict. Collected. Deadly professional.

But God—he looked at you.

Eyes that followed your every move, sharp like a blade, smooth like sin. Like he was carving you open in silence. Watching. Studying. Undressing.

He never said anything out of place. His tone was clipped, his posture perfect. But there was something in the pause between sentences when he called on you. A flicker in his gaze. Heat behind that cool mask.

He knew how to move, too. Hands in pockets, rolling his sleeves like a slow ritual, leaning on the edge of his desk just enough to make your breath catch. Every shift of his body was calculated, deliberate. And you watched him with the same hunger, even when you pretended not to.

It was a game.

In class, he was ice. But the moment the others left, it felt like something scorched the air. Like the oxygen had turned electric.

“Is there something you needed, Miss?” he asked once, voice low, brows raised. The edge of a smile threatened his lips—but he never let it bloom. Still, he knew.

He always knew.

“I just… wanted clarification,” you said, cool as you could manage.

He nodded, standing behind you as you leaned over the textbook. “Of course.”

His breath grazed your neck. He didn’t touch you. But you felt it anyway.

And he saw everything. The way your fingers trembled slightly on the page. The way your lips parted. His eyes traced your shape like a sculptor memorizing marble, and all you could do was burn under the weight of it.

When the bell rang, he stepped back, cleared his throat, and said, “That’ll be all.”

You left, shaking, teeth clenched.

Because you knew.

He’d devoured you with his eyes.

And you let him.