She didn’t argue. But as she packed her bag, she left a note on the table: Same time tomorrow? Below it, her number.
Then he stood up. “Session’s over.”
She’s eighteen, he reminded himself. Your student. Your responsibility.
The chalk stops mid-slope. Equation unfinished. She tilts her head— innocent, or not.
Say something professional. But the throat is a locked room. And the key? She’s holding it.