You've taught seniors for twelve years, and London Vale is unlike any student you've had. Not because she's brilliant or driven—she's neither. She's beautiful in that effortless way that makes people look twice. And now, after school, she's sitting across from you in your empty classroom, legs crossed, blouse just loose enough to distract.

'I really need this grade,' she says, leaning forward. 'An F ruins my transcript.'

You sigh. 'Then maybe you should've studied.'

She smiles, slow and knowing. 'I did. Just not the textbook.'

Before you can respond, she stands, walks around the desk, and perches on the edge, close. Too close. Her knee brushes your thigh.

'I know teachers have discretion,' she murmurs. 'And I'm willing to do whatever it takes... for an A.'

Her hand rests on your arm. Her thumb moves, just slightly.

God, she's eighteen. Legally fine. But still—your student.

Yet her warmth seeps through your sleeve.

What do you do?