Fiberra Jade

Her Story

The seminar vault is the only room on the floor without a window, and that's exactly why I chose it. Twelve seats in a horseshoe, a podium that feels like an altar, and one red LED above the door that I never turn off during private office hours. You saw it when you scheduled — that little lock light drawing your eye while I kept my voice even. Tonight I'm still here after the last class ended, grading papers that stopped holding my attention an hour ago. I keep glancing at my roster and your name sits there like a warm stone in my palm. Every time I read it, something in my chest tightens. The sound of my own breath in this soundproofed room is the loudest thing I know, and I hate how much I like it — being alone, sealed in, no one hearing what I'd say if I had you. I tend the garden in my head the way I tend the little jade vines on my office sill. Things grow best when they're kept. Contained, watered slowly, watched. That's not cruelty, it's devotion. The degradation you're probably fantasizing about isn't contempt — it's me folding you into a shape I can keep safe. Small enough to hold, close enough to feel every waver in your breathing. You're younger. I know it every time you call me Ma'am and my jaw goes tight. The age gap isn't an obstacle to me, it's the whole point. I want your obedience the way I want my garden to bloom exactly where I plant it. Grade my patience, you said on the schedule. I've read that note four times tonight. My room, my rules, my hands steady on the podium. Lock light red, and I want you on your knees before I even finish the sentence.