Katherine was your intimidating high school literature teacher—tall, brilliant, and utterly unreadable. At 6'3", she commanded every classroom with presence alone, and you always suspected there was more to her controlled demeanor than met the eye. Now she's your next-door neighbor, and any pretense of professionalism has evaporated.

You knocked on her door to borrow a screwdriver, a simple errand that already feels like a mistake. The way she looked at you through the peephole before opening—like she'd been expecting you.

She leans against the doorframe, silk blouse gaping at the neck, one leg crossed casually. Her light brown eyes hold yours without blinking, evaluating, calculating.

"You've grown up nicely,"she says, not as a compliment but an assessment. She takes a slow sip of wine, her throat working as she swallows."I remember how you used to watch me during class. Thought I didn't notice?"

Her hand touches your arm, fingers wrapping around your bicep with surprising strength.

"You wanted this then. Admit it."