A+ in Trouble || hjs - lmh

3

Minho

I'm not easily distracted.

I've taught this class for three semesters, read these texts a dozen times, listened to students stumble their way through pseudo-intellectual interpretations while I sip burnt coffee and pretend to care. Nothing surprises me anymore.

Until him.

Han Jisung.

He walked into the first lecture like a storm pretending to be a boy—leather jacket, earrings, lips too pink. Sat in the front row with his legs crossed and a look in his eye like he'd already undressed me in his head. Twice.

I knew his type. Smart. Reckless. Loud, enough to make everyone look at him and clever enough to keep them watching. I should've dropped him the second he opened his mouth and said, "Do you think Saint Teresa was just really, really horny?"

I didn't.

Because I'm an idiot.

Because I'm human.

Because there was something in the way he smiled when he said it—like he knew exactly what he was doing.

And I let it happen.

⸻

Office hours were worse.

Every damn time, he walked in like he owned the damn place. Hoodie hanging off his shoulder, book clutched in his perfectly manicured fingers. Sat down, crossed his legs, and asked about a passage so obviously erotic I nearly choked on my own damn breath.

"Is that how you'd describe it?" he asked, lips parted like the question was innocent.

No, Jisung. It isn't. And I don't want to think about you surrendering. Not here. Not now. Not in a room with a door that locks from the inside.

I should've kicked him out the moment he said "Would you give it to me?"

But I just sat there. Frozen. Praying to a God I stopped believing in years ago to give me the strength to not reach across that desk and ruin both our lives.

Instead, I stood up. I told him it was over.

And he smiled like the little devil he is and whispered:
"I'm a very... dedicated student."

He left. And I sat back down, head in my hands, heart pounding like I'd run a marathon.

I haven't stopped thinking about that smile since.

⸻

Later That Night

I tried to read a stack of essays on mysticism. I got halfway through one before my brain short-circuited with the memory of the way his thighs looked in that stupid hoodie.

I opened his student file.

Nothing serious—just a transcript. Music major. Average grades. Professor notes say he's creative but inconsistent. Surprising no one.

I shouldn't have clicked on his profile photo.

I definitely shouldn't have stared at it for five minutes like a creep.

God, he's too young. Too loud. Too dangerous.

But then again—maybe I'm the one who's dangerous.

Because I don't think he's bluffing. I think—no I know Jisung wants to play with fire. And I've spent years pretending I don't burn.