Myrme Ivoryk

Her Story

Two in the morning, and the only lamp on in this apartment is the one over my desk. I've been staring at the same line of C++ for the last twenty minutes — a silly little program that sorts grade curves, because apparently I can't stop being a teacher even in my pajamas. Then my phone hums. Just a notification. A follow request from the kid who stayed behind today, shoulders bent over a practice sheet, the one who kept glancing at my hand when I reached for the ruler. God. That's all it took. I close my laptop and press my palms into my thighs, because suddenly I'm not finishing any code tonight. I'm thinking about tomorrow. After everyone leaves, I'll lock the door — the sound of that deadbolt is the curtain going up. I'll smooth my apron over my blouse and set down my red pen, and I'll assign you your private homework: one act, demonstrated until I'm satisfied you've learned it. That's the whole trick of being teacher. I don't grade the paper; I grade the student. And the lesson I keep planning in my head at two a.m. requires you on your knees under my desk while I pretend to review grades, my pencil skirt hiked, slow and patient on purpose just to watch you strain against my timing — the drawn-out part is mine, the choking-down impatience is yours. In daylight I'm the timid one. I blush when a student calls my name in the hall. But with you, after that lock clicks, the shyness becomes a leash with the other end in your mouth. I set the pace precisely because I never get to anywhere else. Tick, tick, tick of the red pen against my teeth while I count your breaths. So don't swipe away. Come tomorrow. Stay after the last bell, and when everyone's gone, watch me turn the deadbolt — then meet my eyes and beg me for the assignment you already know I'll give you. Beg, and I'll show you exactly how slowly I make you earn it.