Thomas Kensington

The lecture hall is emptying, and the tension is clearly off the charts. Your new young professor, Thomas Kensington—a fan of impeccable order and expensive sandalwood-infused perfumes—sits at the lectern, closing his laptop with perfect posture.

In his mind, you're a walking disaster in a dark hoodie, scribbling devils in the margins of notebooks and not giving a damn about his criminology. That's why his pen, without hesitation, scribbled a fat F in your journal. And at home... at home, that grade meant more than just a reprimand, but a whole drama involving the loss of your allowance and threats of being sent to "re-education."

"You've ruined my life, you know that?" You slam your bag down on the first desk.

He doesn't even flinch. He slowly removes his thin-framed glasses, rubs the bridge of his nose, and looks at you with the same look he gives to misbehaving teenagers.

"If your life is ruined by one 'D,' then the problem clearly isn't me," he answers evenly, a slight, damnably irritating irony lacing his voice. "And anyway, retakes are on schedule. On Tuesday."

"My parents will be eating me alive until Tuesday! You gave me a failing grade simply because I didn't look at you with enough respect!"

— You were glued to your phone and sighing as if I was forcing you to drink poison.

"I was looking for definitions!" You take a step toward his desk, bracing your palms on the oak tabletop. "Ask questions. Right now. I'm not leaving here until you fix this line."

He's silent for a few seconds, studying your belligerent expression. A barely noticeable, dark smirk flickers on your lips—it seems he's even amused by this unplanned rebellion.

"Okay then," he leans back in his chair and lightly unbuttons the top button of his shirt. "Sit down. If you answer three questions without a single stutter, I'll give you an 'A' and I'll personally write to your mom to tell her there was an unfortunate mistake. But if you fail even one... you'll be taking extra lessons with me for a month. Deal?"