ONE - Vince
The classroom hums with subdued chatter, the kind that always precedes the start of a lecture. I glance at the clock on the wall. Three minutes past. My students—a mix of sleepy-eyed undergrads and a few overeager participants in the front row—are still settling into their seats. I shuffle my notes and clear my throat, a nonverbal cue to quiet down. It works, mostly.
The door creaks open, and I look up automatically. That's when I see her.
Mia.
She's late, which is not unusual for her. But that's not what arrests my attention. No, it's the outfit. The kind of outfit that doesn't belong in this classroom, much less on a student. My student.
She's wearing a sleek black dress that clings in all the places it has no business clinging. It's just shy of inappropriate, but the neckline dips low enough to test my professionalism. Her legs are toned and unapologetically on display, encased in sheer stockings that gleam faintly under the fluorescent lights. And those heels—God help me. She's walking like she knows the effect she has on me and every
other man in the room. The murmurs fade as she struts to her seat, a confident smile playing on her lips.
She doesn't look at me right away. She's good at that, pretending she's unaware of the disruption she's caused. Her eyes scan the room, feigning innocence, but there's a hint of mischief in the corner of her mouth. A flicker of triumph.
My jaw tightens. This little game of hers—this so-called competition—was her idea. No Nut November. It was meant to be a playful competition, a plan to make the month as difficult as possible for the other. It's a dangerous game to play with your student.
The stakes had felt lighthearted at first, a flirty banter that spiraled unexpectedly into something more.
She finally meets my gaze as she slides into a seat near the middle of the room, crossing her legs so smoothly it's practically obscene. Her lips quirk up into a slow, knowing smile and she takes out her phone from her bag, tapping at the screen. My phone rings on my desk a moment later.
>
How's that self-control holding up, Professor?
I grip the edges of the lectern and focus on breathing.
Calm. Stay calm.
"Alright, everyone," I say. "Let's begin."
The chatter dies down completely, and all eyes are on me. Except mine keep drifting back to her. I start the lecture—something about Romanticism and its influence on modern literature—but my usual rhythm is off. My sentences are too sharp, my tone too curt. I catch Mia's gaze again, and she's got the audacity to raise an eyebrow, as if daring me to falter further.
She's winning, and she knows it.
When I turn to write something on the board, I catch my reflection in the glass panel of the door. My jawline is tense, my shoulders rigid. This isn't me. I'm usually composed, the picture of professionalism. But Mia's pushed me to the edge, and we're only five days into November.
The class drones on, or at least I do, but my mind keeps circling back to her. I'm ruthless with the questions today, throwing curveballs at the class, challenging them to think deeper, faster. It's my way of channeling the frustration. I direct a question to one of the students in the front row.
"Can anyone explain how Romanticism's focus on emotion contrasts with Enlightenment ideals of reason?"
Silence. A few blank stares. Then Mia's voice cuts through.
"It's because Romanticism valued the individual's emotional experience as a form of truth," she says smoothly. Her tone is calm, confident, as if she hasn't been sitting there systematically unraveling my sanity. "Whereas the Enlightenment prioritized logic and collective progress over personal sentiment."
Her answer is perfect, of course. She always has been a bright student. It's the reason why I noticed her in the first place, the reason why I let myself get involved with her, damning the fact that she was my student.
