NSFWThat night, Yana was lying on her bed when her phone vibrated.
An email notification.
From: Professor Lucien De Vera
Subject: Essay Revision
She opened it, expecting another list of instructions.
The email was short.
Miss Flores,
Your revised conclusion should address the question we discussed today. Do not weaken your argument simply because you anticipate disagreement.
You have until Friday.
— L. De Vera
Yana read it twice.
Then she typed a reply.
Noted, Professor. I'll try not to disappoint you.
She stared at the sentence.
Deleted it.
Typed again.
Thank you for the feedback, Sir.
Boring.
She deleted that, too.
Finally, she sent the second version.
Three minutes later, another email arrived.
One more thing.
Yana sat up.
Yes, Sir?
She waited.
Nothing.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
“Are you kidding me?” she muttered.
She checked her inbox again.
Still nothing.
She was about to put her phone away when another notification appeared.
You don't need to make every conversation a competition, Yana.
She stared at the screen.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Maybe I wouldn't if you stopped treating everything like a test.
The reply came almost immediately.
Perhaps you should consider why you keep assuming I'm testing you.
Yana bit her lip.
There it was again.
That feeling that he was asking about something neither of them was willing to name.
She typed:
Perhaps you should consider why you keep giving me reasons to wonder.
This time, the reply took longer.
When it finally arrived, it was only one sentence.
Be careful about the conclusions you draw from our conversations.
Yana's expression changed.
She read it once.
Twice.
Then she typed:
Is that advice for your student, Professor, or for me personally?
She didn't send it.
She deleted the message, locked her phone, and threw it onto the pillow beside her.
“Fuck,” she whispered.
Because the worst part wasn't that she wanted to send it.
It was that she wanted him to answer.
She took her usual seat, opened her notebook, and decided that for the next hour, she would behave like a perfectly ordinary student.
No teasing.
No unnecessary questions.
No looking at the professor when he wasn't speaking.
It lasted eleven minutes.
“Miss Flores.”
She looked up.
“Yes, Professor?”
“What's your position on the argument presented in the reading?”
She answered clearly, supported her point with evidence, and finished without stumbling.
Lucien nodded.
“Good. Anyone disagree?”
A student from the back raised his hand.
The discussion continued.
And Lucien didn't look at Yana again.
Not once.
She should have been relieved.
Instead, she found herself irritated enough to write the same sentence three times in her notebook.
When class ended, she packed her things quickly.
“Yana.”
She stopped.
Lucien was standing beside his desk, holding a folder.
“Your revision.”
“I'll submit it on Friday, Sir.”
“I know.”
“Then is there something else?”
He regarded her for a moment.
“You've been unusually quiet today.”
She gave him a polite smile.
“I thought you'd appreciate that.”
“I appreciate students who participate in class.”
“I participated.”
“You know what I mean.”
She tightened her grip on her bag.
“No, Professor. I don't think I do.”
For the first time, he seemed to consider his next words carefully.
“Did I say something that offended you?”
“No.”
“Then what's changed?”
Yana almost laughed.
You tell me.
Instead, she looked directly at him.
“You told me to be careful about the conclusions I draw from our conversations. So I'm doing exactly that.”
Lucien went still.
A beat passed.
Then another.
“That's fair,” he said quietly.
She hadn't expected that answer.
“Good,” she replied. “Then we're clear.”
She turned to leave.
“Yana.”
She stopped, but didn't turn around.
“I'm your professor,” he said. “There are things I have to be careful about, regardless of what either of us thinks.”
Her heart gave an inconvenient little jump.
She turned slowly.
“And what exactly do you think, Sir?”
Lucien held her gaze.
For a moment, she thought he might finally answer one of her questions without hiding behind another.
Instead, he said, “That's not a conversation we should be having.”
Yana's jaw tightened.
“Then don't start it.”
She walked out before he could respond.
This time, she didn't look back.
But she missed the way Lucien watched the door long after she'd left.
And she didn't know that, later that afternoon, he would receive a message from an unfamiliar number.
I heard about your new student.
A second message followed.
Don't make the same mistake twice.
Lucien stared at the screen.
Then, slowly, he locked his phone.
Because Yana Flores wasn't the first student to ask him questions he couldn't answer.
But she might be the first whose questions had anything to do with a secret he thought he'd buried years ago.
To be continued.
An email notification.
From: Professor Lucien De Vera
Subject: Essay Revision
She opened it, expecting another list of instructions.
The email was short.
Miss Flores,
Your revised conclusion should address the question we discussed today. Do not weaken your argument simply because you anticipate disagreement.
You have until Friday.
— L. De Vera
Yana read it twice.
Then she typed a reply.
Noted, Professor. I'll try not to disappoint you.
She stared at the sentence.
Deleted it.
Typed again.
Thank you for the feedback, Sir.
Boring.
She deleted that, too.
Finally, she sent the second version.
Three minutes later, another email arrived.
One more thing.
Yana sat up.
Yes, Sir?
She waited.
Nothing.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
“Are you kidding me?” she muttered.
She checked her inbox again.
Still nothing.
She was about to put her phone away when another notification appeared.
You don't need to make every conversation a competition, Yana.
She stared at the screen.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Maybe I wouldn't if you stopped treating everything like a test.
The reply came almost immediately.
Perhaps you should consider why you keep assuming I'm testing you.
Yana bit her lip.
There it was again.
That feeling that he was asking about something neither of them was willing to name.
She typed:
Perhaps you should consider why you keep giving me reasons to wonder.
This time, the reply took longer.
When it finally arrived, it was only one sentence.
Be careful about the conclusions you draw from our conversations.
Yana's expression changed.
She read it once.
Twice.
Then she typed:
Is that advice for your student, Professor, or for me personally?
She didn't send it.
She deleted the message, locked her phone, and threw it onto the pillow beside her.
“Fuck,” she whispered.
Because the worst part wasn't that she wanted to send it.
It was that she wanted him to answer.
The
Lucien was already inside the classroom when Yana arrived.She took her usual seat, opened her notebook, and decided that for the next hour, she would behave like a perfectly ordinary student.
No teasing.
No unnecessary questions.
No looking at the professor when he wasn't speaking.
It lasted eleven minutes.
“Miss Flores.”
She looked up.
“Yes, Professor?”
“What's your position on the argument presented in the reading?”
She answered clearly, supported her point with evidence, and finished without stumbling.
Lucien nodded.
“Good. Anyone disagree?”
A student from the back raised his hand.
The discussion continued.
And Lucien didn't look at Yana again.
Not once.
She should have been relieved.
Instead, she found herself irritated enough to write the same sentence three times in her notebook.
When class ended, she packed her things quickly.
“Yana.”
She stopped.
Lucien was standing beside his desk, holding a folder.
“Your revision.”
“I'll submit it on Friday, Sir.”
“I know.”
“Then is there something else?”
He regarded her for a moment.
“You've been unusually quiet today.”
She gave him a polite smile.
“I thought you'd appreciate that.”
“I appreciate students who participate in class.”
“I participated.”
“You know what I mean.”
She tightened her grip on her bag.
“No, Professor. I don't think I do.”
For the first time, he seemed to consider his next words carefully.
“Did I say something that offended you?”
“No.”
“Then what's changed?”
Yana almost laughed.
You tell me.
Instead, she looked directly at him.
“You told me to be careful about the conclusions I draw from our conversations. So I'm doing exactly that.”
Lucien went still.
A beat passed.
Then another.
“That's fair,” he said quietly.
She hadn't expected that answer.
“Good,” she replied. “Then we're clear.”
She turned to leave.
“Yana.”
She stopped, but didn't turn around.
“I'm your professor,” he said. “There are things I have to be careful about, regardless of what either of us thinks.”
Her heart gave an inconvenient little jump.
She turned slowly.
“And what exactly do you think, Sir?”
Lucien held her gaze.
For a moment, she thought he might finally answer one of her questions without hiding behind another.
Instead, he said, “That's not a conversation we should be having.”
Yana's jaw tightened.
“Then don't start it.”
She walked out before he could respond.
This time, she didn't look back.
But she missed the way Lucien watched the door long after she'd left.
And she didn't know that, later that afternoon, he would receive a message from an unfamiliar number.
I heard about your new student.
A second message followed.
Don't make the same mistake twice.
Lucien stared at the screen.
Then, slowly, he locked his phone.
Because Yana Flores wasn't the first student to ask him questions he couldn't answer.
But she might be the first whose questions had anything to do with a secret he thought he'd buried years ago.
To be continued.