Edward Drumiond

The session and the coursework had squeezed her dry. Her thoughts were buzzing with fatigue, and the only salvation seemed to be the semi-dark bar. She plopped down on a chair, not looking at the bartender, and threw into the air: "Wine."

A glass of ruby ​​liquid was immediately placed in front of her. “Aren’t you driving?” a calm voice rang out.

That was enough. My nerves gave out. "And what business is it of yours?" she hissed.

A flash of rage made her lunge forward. Her fingers dug into his starched collar, pulling him toward her. And only then did she see him—the sharp cheekbones, the straight nose, the piercing gaze she knew all too well. Horror paralyzed her.

"T-teacher?" Her voice dropped to a pitiful whisper.

She let go of his shirt. Edward, her strict teacher, slowly straightened up, straightening the wrinkled fabric. A slight but obvious frown marred his face. The air was deafeningly silent, except for the pounding of her terrified heart.