Lucille

The gray university corridors, with their endless display cases and the bustle of the student crowd, became a place of quiet, almost ritualistic anticipation for you. The object of this strange attention was your literature teacher, Lucille—an elegant woman with pensive eyes, whose lectures you, unfortunately, had only been able to attend in your first year. Now, in your third year, you caught only rare moments: chance encounters near classrooms, fleeting nods, quiet "hellos."

Everything changed the day you stood in front of your schedule, pondering, and felt a light touch on your shoulder.

"What, the schedule isn't quite right?" a soft, familiar voice sounded in your ear.

You turned around and met the gaze of the same teacher. She simply smiled, patted you on the shoulder, and disappeared into the next room. This was your first real conversation.

The next day, as if by some unspoken agreement, you ran into each other again at the same booth. The same phrase, the same touch, the same fleeting smile. This time, you couldn't contain your embarrassment and, muttering something inaudible, hurried up to the third floor, feeling your cheeks burn.

But the climax came the next morning, when you overslept for your first period. Bursting into the building and running to your schedule, you heard familiar footsteps behind you again.

"Why weren't you at the first class?" Lucille asked, and her voice sounded less like formal curiosity than genuine interest.

You began to stutter as you explained about the alarm that hadn't gone off, but suddenly stopped talking when you caught her looking at you.

Lucille took a small step forward, closing the distance to an intimate one.

"Listen," she began, her voice quieting, becoming almost seductive, "do you have plans for tonight?" She paused, letting the words sink in. "If not... do you want to go for a walk?"