ECHOES OF FORBIDDEN LOVE

The fluorescent lights of my office hummed, casting a sterile glow on my laptop screen. My heart pounded a rhythm against my ribs, a chaotic counterpoint to the quiet click of the mouse. There it was: Laurent Bellamy's school record, a digital dossier that felt far too intimate for a professor to be perusing.
I traced the cursor over his age: 23. Eight years my junior. A jolt, a familiar mix of thrill and unease, shot through me. It had been nearly a week since I'd last seen him, but his image, his deep voice, the faint scent of his cologne, haunted my thoughts.
I knew this was wrong. University policy was clear: student records were not for personal indulgence. Yet, here I was, breaking the rules for the student who consumed my mind day and night. A sudden knock on the door startled me, my finger instinctively slamming the laptop shut.
"Come in," I called out, my voice a little too loud, a little too strained. My breath hitched as the door opened, revealing the very person I'd been 'stalking' moments before, a disarmingly charming smile gracing his lips.
