It was the first Monday of the semester. Room 106, airy and glass-encased, was already buzzing with filled seats, open notebooks, and watchful eyes when the doorknob turned tardily. An immediate and uneasy silence fell, as if time itself held its breath momentarily.

She entered with purposeful strides, yet unhurried, as if the lateness was part of a ritual. Her black skirt hugged her thighs with each step, and her white blouse was slightly unbuttoned at the neckline, not from inattention, but by design. Her eyes didn't seek excuses, they simply locked onto the professor, standing at the front of the room, with the assurance of someone anticipating something.

He lifted his gaze from the book he was engrossed in.

"Name?" he inquired, his voice low and sharp.

"Luna Andrade," she responded, with a half-smile that didn't seek forgiveness, just acknowledgment.

He didn't return the smile.

"There are rules in this discipline. Punctuality is one of them. It will impact your attendance next time."

She nodded, and as she turned to find a seat, he noticed her exposed neck, the nape partially visible under her loosely tied brown hair. She wasn't just another student. He sensed it even before she took her seat.

Luna rested her chin on her hand, her gaze locked onto him. She didn't jot down notes. She just soaked him in.

At the conclusion, he announced the first assessed task:

"An essay. Open topic. Fifteen thousand characters. But I want to feel the body in every line. No sterile dissertations. I want your surrender." He paused, then added, "With words, at least for now."

Some chuckled. Not her. She smiled, but with the slyness of someone who understood more than what was spoken.

Confidence? Temptation? Or was it that perilous blend of both?

When he began grading the essays late one night after class, he wasn't prepared for what he would discover upon opening hers.

The first line was already a jolt:

The first time I felt naked was in the presence of a man who never laid a hand on me.

He paused. Took a deep breath. Proceeded.

"It was his gaze. He saw past my words and perceived the raw emotion within them. He was an educator. The entire room faded away, leaving only him. And me, throbbing between the lines."

The essay didn't mention any names, but it was too personal to be considered generic. It spoke of restrained desire, of fingers that remain still, yet threaten. Of voices delivering lectures while the student's mind conceives orders.

I desired to respond to the queries while my mouth was otherwise engaged.

Literary, indeed. But laden with implications.

Provoked.

He amended the text with a few technical notes. There was nothing to amend. But, at the bottom of the page, he hesitated for a moment before inscribing in his own hand:

You've got talent. But you need to learn to be more... disciplined.

He scrawled his initials next to it. He wanted her to know he'd read it to the end. And that he was responding.

He distributed the corrected papers. When he handed hers over, their fingers brushed for a moment longer than necessary.

She didn't utter a thank you. She just eyed the envelope with the stapled sheets and, later, seated at the back of the room, she slid her thumb to the bottom corner of the last page. There, she found the note.

She read it. Smiled. Then she licked the corner of her lips as if she had savored something sweet and forbidden.

That night, he didn't turn in early.

He poured himself a whiskey, settled into the office chair, and revisited the essay. Each line now held a different weight — it seemed as if she had penned it just for him, like a gift, a cipher, a veiled confession. And he had reciprocated.

And that disarmed him more than any display of cleavage could.

His phone buzzed.

Notification on his academic email: "Regarding the essay — Luna Andrade."

He paused before opening it. Then, he clicked.

"Professor, I appreciate the feedback. But I'm still not quite sure what you meant by 'discipline'. Could there be a practical demonstration?"

Sincerely, Luna.

He read the text. Then he read it again. He then stared at the screen for several minutes, with the glass between his fingers and his heart beating faster than it should.

She was wearing a loosely buttoned dress shirt and a skirt that seemed too tight for a Tuesday. When he walked into the room, his eyes met hers before any other student's.

She held a pen between her lips. Not as a distraction. But as a warning.

When he invited them to read a passage from Bataille aloud, she stepped forward. She read with a steady voice, unabashed by the words:

"There is no pleasure without excess, without transgression. Eroticism is the affirmation of life even in death."

He simply gazed at her — his eyes locked with hers — and responded:

"Excellent choice, Miss Andrade. It appears you've already grasped the essence of the course."

She smiled.

But he could sense it. The tension had now taken on a life of its own. And it wasn't just him who was fueling it.

She was in the game too. Perhaps with even more bravery.

On her way out, she crossed paths with him in the hallway, alone. She paused next to him, uncomfortably close.

"Do you think I'm making headway in the subject, professor?"

He drew a deep breath.

"You are. But there's still a great deal to learn."

I enjoy learning from those who know how to teach... practically.

As if she was leaving behind a trail of gunpowder, ready to ignite.

He remained still for a few seconds.

But he knew, right then and there, that the opening line of that story had already been penned.

And that the upcoming chapters would be dangerously delightful.

The morning sun filtered through the expansive windows of Room 106, casting squares of golden light onto the desks. It was the third lecture of the semester, yet a silent anticipation still hung in the air when he walked through the door. His stride was confident, his gaze intense, and the manner in which he carried his books, as if they were instruments of authority, silenced the whispers the moment his foot touched the cool floor.

A delicate necklace hung between her breasts, subtly accentuated by the fabric. Her legs were crossed, a pen held between her fingers, and her eyes, always her eyes, were locked onto him as if each lecture was a continuation of their last shared glance.

He surveyed the room as he approached the podium. Opening a book, he laid it on the wooden surface, and announced:

Then, he looked up. "Luna Andrade, could you start, please?"

Some students exchanged glances. Her name had become an event. Ever since the essay. Ever since the note. Ever since the excessive stares.

She smiled with her lips, but not with her eyes. She picked up the book slowly, her fingertips grazing the edges as if they were touching something alive.

She turned the page. She cleared her throat, but her voice still came out low.

"Then came the revelation. What had invaded me was a vast identification with the world. My most painful sensation was that I seemed to be a woman with sex. And that's what struck me as a disgrace and as a virtue..." she paused, swallowing hard, "... and as a virtue. As a virtue."

The room was hushed. Even the windows didn't dare to creak. Her voice was the only sound, slightly quavering, growing with each sentence, finding its rhythm.

He watched, unblinking. The tension in his shoulders was subtle, imperceptible to most. But Luna could sense it.

She could feel it in her pores, like a silent electric current passing between them.

She continued.

"It was as if my body had been given to me as something much larger than my soul could handle. My body was bigger than myself."

The sentence hung in the air between them like a confession. Some students shifted restlessly. A cough echoed in the background.

But no one dared to interrupt.

"You can stop now," he said softly, "That's more than enough."

She looked up, her pupils wide with surprise. He stood just a half meter away, studying her as if he were deciphering a secret message.

"You interpret well," his voice was a solid whisper, "But I want to see if you perform with the same dedication."

And she responded with the most audacious silence she had ever mustered.

The class continued, at least for everyone else.

He continued to discuss the concept of the body as a symbolic territory in contemporary Brazilian literature. However, his mind was stuck on the words she had read. The way she had said "my body was larger than me" still sent a shiver down his spine.

Luna had stopped taking notes. She was simply observing, like someone who had just expressed all that they needed to.

As the class came to a close, the students began to stand, gathering their backpacks and shifting chairs. She stayed seated. He gathered his books with a slow meticulousness.

Once most had already departed, she rose. She walked to his desk, never breaking eye contact.

"Professor..."

He glanced up, but offered no response.

That comment you made... regarding execution. Do you often assess... performances?

Nonetheless, he could feel his blood simmering.

"Only those who are worthy," he responded, his voice hushed.

She took another step forward, closing the distance. The books were the only thing standing between them.

— And how does one... prove to be worthy?

He drew a deep breath. His eyes were locked onto hers.

— And then he added: — Knowing when to hold your tongue and when to speak up.

She bit her lower lip, purely out of reflex. The words held weight. And pleasure.

— I understand.

She turned around. Her steps were firm. The sound of her heels echoed through the hallway.

He remained motionless, his hand still resting on the cover of Clarice, as if the book could soak up the warmth she had left lingering in the air.

That evening, the breeze felt unusually warm for the beginning of the term.

He navigated the silent corridors of the university toward the parking lot, his thoughts caught in a relentless whirl. A student. A glance.

A reading. A sentence. A subtle invitation.

His phone buzzed.

An anonymous message. No sender.

His heart pounded. He knew who it was. He had already ventured beyond safe grounds.

Yet, something within him — stronger than fear, deeper than morality — yearned to see how far this tale could ignite.

In the following class, she wasn't late. But he was. Deliberately.

When he walked in, she was already standing, at the front of the blackboard. The other students were seated. And there she was, as though she were an integral part of the room's decor, with a book in her hands.

He paused at the door, intrigued.

"May I begin, professor?" she asked, not sarcastically, but with eyes brimming with defiance.

He gave a nod, both intrigued and thrilled.

She flipped open the book. It was the same one. Clarice.

And then, she began to read:

"All of a sudden, I realized that my true life was the one that seemed the most unlikely. The most undesirable. The most perilous. It was her."

The words stung more than any bareness.

He made his way to the table and took a seat, looking at her as though watching a movie he knows he shouldn't enjoy — but does.

Once she finished reading, she calmly closed the book and took a seat. None of the students noticed what had just transpired. But the two of them were aware.

"The most perilous."

At the conclusion of the class, he gathered the papers, but set one aside. Hers.

On the back, he inscribed with his steady hand:

"Stir less with your words. More with the text."

Or, if you'd rather, prove to me that you can do both.

He folded the paper with discretion and passed it along with the notes.

She accepted it, smiled, but didn't utter a word.

But before she exited the room, she turned around and asked:

"Professor, might I suggest the next reading passage?

He gazed at her, sizing up her audacity with icy eyes — but inside, he was seething.

"You may."

"Story of the Eye, by Bataille", she stated, with the calmest voice in the world.

He held her gaze.

"Approved. But remember... some readings are irreversible."

She blinked.

"I'm counting on it."

And she walked away. Her

skirt swaying on her hips, like a definitive period without any regret.

Friday rolled in with the city feeling suffocating, as if the air itself refused to circulate. The university corridors were more deserted than usual. It was the last class of the morning, with few professors left on campus.

The motion was almost soundless — perfect for those wishing to remain unnoticed.

The name on the carved wooden plaque still shone on the door:

Prof. Dr. D. A. Moretti — Contemporary Literature

The knock on the door was faint.

"Come in," he said, without lifting his gaze.

She held a small notebook and wore an expression too controlled to be innocent.

"I came to clear up a doubt," she stated simply.

"About what?"

"Let's discuss ambiguous language," she began, a slow smile curving her lips. "And the art of double interpretations."

He motioned towards the chair opposite him. With a serene demeanor, she sat down, crossed her legs, and rested the notebook on her lap.

"Speak," he instructed, maintaining a neutral tone, his body seemingly relaxed.

She glanced around before responding, as if taking in the surroundings, absorbing every detail of the place where they were now alone. The door was shut. No windows visible from the outside.

"In certain texts, some words only reveal their true meaning to those with a discerning eye." She looked at him directly. "Do you believe every text harbors a hidden layer?"

"Only the best ones do."

She nibbled on her lower lip, seemingly processing the response.

"And when the author writes specifically for a certain reader?"

He set down his pen. He was weary of this game of euphemisms and metaphors. Or perhaps he was on the brink of capitulation.

"The author gambles," he finally conceded. "Especially when the reader comprehends too much."

She leaned in slightly. Her neckline now more exposed. The perfume — sweet and overpowering — filled the space between them.

"Sometimes, comprehension is inevitable," she whispered. "Even when it's forbidden."

Silence. Time seemed to stretch out, pressing against the two figures.

He reclined in the chair, his gaze locked on her.

"Do you understand boundaries, Luna?"

She blinked slowly. The question sliced through her like a scalpel.

"It depends on who's setting them," she responded, "and how."

The tension between them had thickened, like storm clouds ready to burst. The hum of the air conditioner was the only sound in the room. The table between them seemed symbolic—a physical barrier that no longer maintained the emotional distance.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice now deeper.

"Wondering what you would do... if I crossed some of these boundaries."

She teased him expertly. Nothing sounded desperate or crude. Each word was chosen, calculated, with the grace of a character who knew the author was watching.

He stood up.

He circled the table slowly. His steps echoed like heartbeats.

She followed him with her eyes, but did not move.

He came to a halt beside her. Too close. His breath, warm with a subtle hint of coffee and suppressed longing, was now palpable.

He leaned in slightly, his hand suspended in the air, not making contact.

"You play well. But some games are just too dangerous."

"And too thrilling to resist," she whispered, turning her face towards the sound of his voice.

Their faces were close, mere inches apart. He could see each of her eyelashes, the moist gleam on her lips.

His hand slowly ascended until it reached her chin. With a gentle, yet assertive motion, he lifted her face.

The touch was nearly imperceptible, yet its intensity jolted them both.

"Go," he said, his tone a mix between an order and a plea. "Before I do something irreversible."

She offered no response.

She simply held his gaze for a moment too long. A silence that screamed yes.

And then, she complied.

She stood up gently, adjusted her bag's strap on her shoulder, and walked towards the door.

Before she left, she turned back one last time, leaning against the doorframe:

Just so you know, professor... I don't do things by halves.

He didn't reply. He simply looked at her. Like someone contemplating a line that had already been crossed.

She shut the door behind her. And with it, she seemed to take the entire atmosphere of the office.

That late afternoon, the office seemed to be frozen in time.

The stagnant air, the yellowish lights casting shadows on the walls lined with books. He stood there, hands deep in his dress pants pockets, shoulders tense, jaw set. His gaze was fixed on the chair where, just minutes before, Luna had been sitting, crossing her legs, leaning in, dropping words like bait for something he barely dared to name.

But now, there was no longer any room for disguises.

The gentle fragrance of her perfume still lingered in the air, mingling with the warmth of his own body that he barely noticed perspiring. The skin on his index finger—the same one that lightly grazed her chin—still felt as if it were on fire. Such minimal contact, yet the memory was tangible, vibrant, unforgettable.

The words she had left behind echoed in his mind like a softly spoken enchantment:

"It all depends on who's imposing them."

He mentally replayed it, and with each repetition, it sounded increasingly perilous. More enticing. Was it a submission?

A challenge? Or both? Perhaps she knew precisely what to say.

Perhaps she was gauging just how far he would go.

And he remained like that for several minutes. Thinking. Feeling.

He tried, unsuccessfully, to control his breathing.

The silence was only punctuated by the soft ping of a notification.

Across the campus, Luna leaned against her car. The setting sun cast reddish hues on the vehicle, and she stared at her phone screen as if she were composing not a message, but a second chapter.

Her fingers danced across the screen with certainty, without any hesitation.

"Thank you for the consultation. I feel... inspired to continue the study. See you next class."

No emoticon. No name.

She knew he would recognize it.

They knew there was no need to sign their own wish.

They hit "send" and smiled. A small, controlled smile. But there was a fire behind it.

Then they read it again. Their heart pounded — not from surprise, but from confirmation.

She had grasped the rules of the game. And she was all in.

They switched off the screen, reclined in the chair, and shut their eyes.

No more doubts lingered. The tension between them was now merely a preamble.

Be cause, from that moment forward, neither of them would emerge unscathed.