Thursday morning crawled in thick and humid, the kind of heat that clung to skin like a secret.

  Seraphine walked into Abnormal Psychology with the same silent ritual as always — second row, farthest left, body still, expression unreadable.

  But today, something beneath her quiet surface shifted.

  She lifted her gaze.

  Dr. Alano stood at the board scribbling lecture notes.

  Midstroke, he paused — like some instinct tugged the back of his neck — and turned ever so slightly.

  His eyes met hers.

  She didn’t smile, didn’t blink, didn’t soften.

  She simply held the look.

  And that, somehow, was worse.

  His throat bobbed.

  He clutched his chalk too tight, fingers trembling before he forced them steady and kept writing.

  When the bell rang, everyone scattered — laughter, chairs scraping, backpacks zipping, a surge toward the hallway.

  Everyone except Seraphine.

  She strolled toward his desk with the softness of a breeze, notebook clasped loose in her hand.

  “Sir,” she asked, almost whispering, “about the quiz next week…”

  Plain words, perfectly harmless.

  But she leaned in just a fraction closer than needed.

  Close enough that he smelled rain on her blouse.

  Close enough his pulse reacted before his mind did.

  He answered too fast, too carefully.

  She thanked him with a gentle nod and slipped away like she’d never touched anything inside him at all.

  But something inside him stayed rattling long after she left.

  A door cracked open.

  He could have shut it.

  He did not.

  The same routine played out the next day.

  Lecture. Notes. Minds wandering.

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  Dr. Alano told himself he wouldn’t look at her.

  He looked anyway.

  Once, twice — by the fourth time he’d lost count — and every single time, she was already watching him.

  Not smiling. Not coy. Just seeing him.

  It pinned him to his own skin like a specimen under glass.

  After class she came again — another safe question, phrased politely, eyes steady.

  He leaned forward without thinking. Spoke longer than he needed. Forgot the rest of the room existed.

  When she left, he pressed a palm to his chest, startled by its pace.

  By day three, whispers had spread like spilled ink.

  “Sir’s got a favorite.”

  “Look at him drooling.”

  “Of all people, of course it’s her.”

  Seraphine walked through gossip like wind through trees — untouched, unaware, unconcerned.

  When everyone else packed up, she remained. He noticed her waiting before she even moved.

  “Miss Calderon,” he greeted, warmer than before.

  She stepped forward — too close again — and asked something small, something irrelevant, something he absolutely could have emailed an answer to.

  He answered anyway.

  She gave him a soft “Thank you,” and turned away, leaving him smiling like a fool who’d forgotten he was being watched.

  He collapsed into his chair after she left, pinching his eyes shut.

  He didn’t recognize the trap forming.

  She did.

  Another day broke open with thunder and sideways rain. Windows rattled while students shook water from their hair and cursed the weather.

  Seraphine entered, her ribbon damp from mist, not sparing her professor a glance.

  So, he stared instead.

  Her fingers around a pen. The slope of her neck. That ribbon in her hair he suddenly wanted to untie.

  He hated himself for it.

  He didn’t stop.

  By mid-lecture, his voice drifted. Words blurred into background noise.

  She didn’t look at him once.

  Which made him look more.

  When class ended, a few stragglers lingered until he cleared his throat — too sharp, too obviously impatient for the room to empty.

  He wanted her alone.

  And he got what he wanted.

  Seraphine walked up slowly, notebook tucked to her chest.

  “Sir,” she murmured, “I didn’t quite understand—”

  Before she finished the sentence, his hand moved — unthinking, instinctive — settling lightly at her waist.

  Warm. Familiar. Claiming.

  The touch startled him more than it startled her.

  She went still.

  Her eyes widened like she’d been struck.

  A quick inhale.

  A flinch.

  She stepped back fast, cheeks going crimson.

  “I— I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice trembling, body recoiling like prey.

  He stammered something half-formed — excuse, apology, panic — but she was already turning, already fleeing the room like she needed air.

  The door swung shut behind her.

  He stared at his hand like it had betrayed him.

  God. What have I done?

  But outside the classroom, Seraphine slowed her pace.

  Her breathing steadied.

  Her shoulders dropped.

  And a small, sharp smile curled the corner of her mouth — a smile no one would ever see if she didn’t want them to.

  Not fear.

  Control.

  She knew men like him never stop at the first touch.

  She knew the shame would ferment into hunger.

  She counted on it.

  Night seeped into the city and clung to the streets. Rain steamed up from pavement. Neon’s flickered to life one by one.

  At nine, the sign for Vixen’s Den buzzed red.

  Dr. Alano slipped inside, wedding ring tucked discreetly into his pocket, tie loosened, guilt left at the doorstep.

  Music pulsed like a heartbeat inside the club.

  Girls swayed under cheap stage lights, their bodies glittering with sweat and resignation.

  He watched them like he owned the gaze.

  Bought their attention.

  Put his hands where he shouldn’t.

  Smiled like the world owed him beauty on demand.

  Seraphine stood across the street beneath a lamppost, half-hidden by cascading rain.

  She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Didn’t feel anything at all.

  Every night, he peeled off another layer of himself — bottle by bottle, dollar by dollar.

  And every night, she collected it like evidence.

  Not for a file.

  Not for campus security.

  For a reckoning.

  Rain ribboned down her hair, cold and steady.

  She whispered into it, her voice swallowed by thunder and streetlight hum.