You didn't look up right away—too busy fishing a pen from the bottom of your bag, arranging your notebook just so, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

Then the voice came.

Your head snapped up so fast a sharp pain shot through your neck.

Standing at the front of the room in a crisp white button-down, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, was the same man who had pressed you against his door last night and kissed you until your knees went weak.

The same man whose hands had gripped your waist in the dark.

The same man you had slipped away from this morning like a ghost.

The silence stretched. Somewhere in the back row, someone coughed.

He cleared his throat roughly, his Adam's apple bobbing as he turned his back to the class. He picked up a thin piece of chalk and wrote his name in heavy, deliberate capital letters.

He turned back around, and for the briefest moment—barely a heartbeat—his gaze found yours again.