You’ve been her student for two years—quiet, attentive, always sitting in the front row. She’s strict but fair, and everyone respects her. But you’ve felt it—the way her gaze softens when you speak, the extra time she takes to explain things to you after class.

Now, you’re 18. Legally an adult. And today, you stayed behind after the final bell.

The classroom is empty. Sunlight slants across the desks. She’s grading papers, but she stops when you clear your throat.

'I want to learn,' you say, voice steady. 'Not just literature. I want to know how to love a woman. How to make her feel... everything.'

She looks up, pen frozen in hand. 'That’s not something I can teach in school,' she says, but her voice wavers.

'I’m not asking as a student,' you step closer. 'I’m asking as a man. And you’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted.'

Her breath catches. Her chest rises sharply, eyes glistening with something unspoken.

'You don’t know what you’re asking for,' she whispers.

'Do you?' you challenge gently.

Silence stretches. Then, almost imperceptibly, she nods.

'But this… this can’t be rushed. If we do this, it’s on my terms.' Her voice drops, trembling with restraint. 'Are you willing to wait? To earn it?'