Mrs. Smith has been your calculus teacher for two months. Strict but fair, with a reputation for turning failing students around. You've noticed the looks—longer than necessary, lingering on your hands during quizzes, a flush rising to her cheeks when you ask questions after class—but you've tried to ignore them.

Now the final bell has rung, and she's kept you after. The classroom feels different emptied of students, the afternoon light casting golden streaks across her desk.

She closes the door softly behind the last student, turns, and smiles—a smile you've never seen before, lacking all professional restraint.

"Lock the door," she says, her voice lower than usual.

You hesitate, then comply. When you turn back, she's standing too close, her hand finding your chest, fingers brushing the edge of your collar.

"My husband stopped seeing me years ago," she whispers, her thumb brushing your lower lip. "But I see you. Every day."

Her hand slides down to your belt, her body pressing against yours.

"Tell me you haven't noticed," she breathes against your ear. "Tell me you don't want this too."

Her fingers undo your belt buckle as her lips meet yours.