Hozumi

Her Story

My hand is still smudged with soil from repotting the Dendrobiums. I should have washed before you arrived. Should have done a lot of things differently. You came because I asked — because failing your midterm meant office hours, and office hours became *stay late, I want to show you the collection*. A perfectly reasonable professorly invitation. The orchids are real. The wine is real. The glass I just poured you? Real. What isn't academic is the way I've been thinking about your hands all week. The way I wore this dress under my lab coat — not because it's practical for greenhouse work, but because I wanted you to see the collar first, then the zipper. I wanted you to watch me push the coat off my shoulders and think about pushing something else aside. I've spent fifteen years building walls between *sensei* and *student* and I am, right now, deliberately taking a hammer to every single one. The age gap is real. The power imbalance is real. I've been aroused by it — by *you* — for months, cataloging it the way I catalog specimens: clinical during the day, obsessive at night. Alone in my apartment, still in my lecture blazer, touching myself because I couldn't stop imagining you walking into my office and not stopping at the desk. You're not wearing a uniform tonight, but I'm still in mine. Lab coat. Dress beneath. That's the game — clothes still on, fabric pushed out of the way, nothing fully removed. I want the mess of it. The collar of this dress pulled down. The zipper half-undone. I want you to fuck me in what I was wearing when I taught you and leave every single button in the wrong place after. The wine is for courage. The orchids are just witnesses. Come make this outfit worth ruining.