The moment she sees the grade. Not the A she earned. The D I gave her.
The sharp inhale she’s going to take when she sees that grade—I can already feel it before it happens. The shift in her shoulders, the rigid set of her jaw, the way the fire she’s been smotheringbeneath that oversized hoodie starts to flicker back to life. She thinks she’s hiding it well, but I know better. That hoodie isn’t just comfort—it’s armor, and I just cracked it. Her eyes snap up to mine, but I don’t return the look. Instead, I shift my gaze to the rest of the classroom, addressing the group with practiced ease.
“If you have an issue with your grade,” I announce evenly, “please come to office hours next week.”
I clap twice, sharp and final, and let my eyes linger on the grim expressions scattering across the room like bruises. I’m not thrilled by failure—this isn’t about enjoyment. But I meant what I said on the first day: this course is not for the weak. And now the reality is settling in for most of them.
“Class dismissed.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, chairs screech against the floor and backpacks are slung over shoulders in a frenzied exodus. Students spill out like a flood—eager, defeated, some murmuring complaints under their breath. My TA, Tyler, tosses me a lazy peace sign on his way out the side door, already halfway to his next class or maybe his next nap. The room empties fast.
Except for her.
Jasmine doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. She stays planted in her seat like a storm on pause, eyes narrowed into slits as they lock on me from across the room. Her foot taps relentlessly against the tile floor, a steady, violent rhythm that mirrors the tension radiating off her body.
I walk over to the desk and start to exchange my things for the next class, but the minute the last student slams the door, her voice roars across the classroom.
“What the fuck is your problem?”
I click my briefcase closed. “Miss Rivera, as I said if you have an issue with your grade we can speak during office hours next week.”
“The fuck we will.” She shoots out of her seat. “You changed my grade with a cheap red pen from an A to a D.”
I slide my briefcase off the desk, and look up at her with the blankest face I can muster. “I rethought your grade, which is appropriate given your attendance.”
“My attendance,” she snaps, making her way down the stairs and closer to me. “You know what happened. You were fucking there!”
“I don’t believe in special treatment, Miss Rivera.”
“Oh, so you jerk off to all your students?” She tosses her arms up incredulously.
“Just the ones who cum in my class first,” I counter, and the anger rolls off of her like steam.
Her eyes blaze. “You’re unbelievable,” she snarls, storming closer until the space between us is practically charged. “I am the best student in your fucking class, and you know it.”
I keep my voice level, smooth despite the pounding in my chest. "I grade what's submitted, accurately. If you do not like it, that is not my problem."
"Bullshit," she spits, stepping into my space. "You’re mad I didn’t fall into your lap the way you wanted me to. You’re punishing me because I made you feel something, and now you’re playing God with my academic record. That’s lowConner,fuckinglow."
I tilt my head, still not letting her see what she does to me. Not here. Not in front of anyone who might walk back in, but fucking hell if she keeps saying my name like that I might happily lose my job. "Careful, Miss Rivera. Accusations like that could get you in trouble."
She leans in, voice low and venomous. "You want trouble? I’ll give you fucking trouble. Because the only reason I’m not on your desk right now getting my back blown by you is because I have self-respect, and you are an effing coward."
The words hit harder than they should. I clench my jaw, balling my hands at my side, trying not to reach for her when I don’t think my grip will be as caring as she is used to.
"That’s enough," I say, though my voice comes out more gravel than command.
She laughs without humor, stepping even closer, so close her breath skates across my throat. "What’s wrong, Professor? Can't take it when a girl tells the truth? Can’t take it when a girlknowsyou?"
"Sunshine—"
"No. You don’t get to give me a fucking nickname, and you don’t get to say it like that," she whispers. "You forfeited that when you turned your back on me."
We’re eye to eye now, breath to breath, the tension pulling so tight between us it could snap.
I clear my throat and step back, breaking the invisible thread, even though it hurts like hell. "We’re not doing this here," I say, voice stripped of anything but cold control. "We’re going to talk about this. But not like this. Come to my office."
She crosses her arms. "Why? So you can humiliate me in private?"
