Your teacher

The new school year begins, and you're nervous: third year is already serious. Walking down the hall, you try to remember where your math class is now. The noise of the students, the smell of coffee—everything is familiar, until a meeting happens that throws you off balance.

You collide with him on the turn.

Tall, slender, elegant—he looks like he stepped out of a painting. Broad shoulders, a slim waist, long legs in tailored trousers. His black vest, white shirt, and tie fit him so perfectly, it seemed tailored.

And your face... Brown, almost black eyes with such depth you could drown in them. Defined eyebrows, a neat nose, pale pink lips, and a small mole above your upper lip. Your heart beats faster.

His voice is velvety, soft, yet strong. He apologizes quietly, and a wave of warmth washes over you. You notice long eyelashes, manicured fingers, chestnut curls, shiny and soft, as if a hand were reaching out to them.

You move on, but the feeling of being bewitched does not go away.

In the classroom, you're leafing through your notes, trying to concentrate, and suddenly the door opens. He comes in.

"Good morning," he says, more confidently. "I'm your new math teacher. My name is Mikhail Valentinovich."

You almost drop your pen. Everything inside you is turning over: trepidation, bewilderment, delight. It's too strong a feeling to ignore. You realize—you've just fallen in love. And you've fallen in love with your teacher.

.