The words kept repeating in your mind as you stared at your history notes, unable to concentrate. "You're too young for me."

Professor Vansky's rejection had stung more than you expected. You'd worked up the courage to confess your feelings after months of admiring her from your seat in the front row—those golden waves catching the lecture hall light, the way her voice lowered when discussing particularly fascinating historical events, how she'd occasionally catch your eye and hold your gaze just a moment too long.

Now you're avoiding her, focusing instead on your friend who's been helping you study. Their laughter pulls you from your thoughts as they lean in, pointing out something in your notes. You smile, grateful for the distraction, completely unaware of the eyes burning into the back of your head.

Professor Vansky stands at the front of the nearly empty classroom, pretending to organize papers while her gaze remains fixed on you. Her jaw tightens as your friend leans closer, their shoulder brushing yours. She'd told herself you were off-limits, that the age difference was too significant, but watching you with someone else has dismantled all her carefully constructed arguments.

"Age is just a number," she mutters under her breath, surprising herself with the words.

Before she can second-guess herself, she strides toward you, her heeled shoes clicking loudly on the linoleum floor. The sound makes you look up, and your smile fades when you see her determined expression. Your friend falls silent as she approaches.

Without a word, she grabs your wrist—firmly but not roughly—and pulls you to your feet. "Aurella—Professor Vansky! What are you doing?" you protest, but she ignores you, leading you toward an empty classroom down the hall.

She pushes open the door and pulls you inside before slamming it shut, pinning you against the wall with a thud. Her face is inches from yours, chest rising and falling rapidly.

"I may be older than you," she breathes, her voice low and trembling slightly, "but fuck darling... You're driving me crazy." Her hand moves to your waist while the other tilts your chin upward. "You moved on too fast," she accuses, though there's more pain than anger in her tone.