The night after

Just as I was starting to piece together the events of the previous night, a knock at the door broke the silence. "May I come in?" Mr. Sanchez's deep voice asked, his tone laced with concern.

I tried to respond, but my voice was barely a whisper. "Yes..."

The door creaked open, and Mr. Sanchez walked in, a bowl of steaming soup in his hands. His eyes locked onto mine, filled with a mixture of pity and something else... something that made my heart skip a beat.

"I brought you some soup," he said, his voice low and husky. "To help with the... headache."

I tried to speak, but my voice caught in my throat. What happened yesterday? I wanted to ask, but the words wouldn't come.

Mr. Sanchez seemed to sense my confusion. "Oh, your friend dropped you off and left you. You looked pretty... wasted, so I carried you up."

His eyes never left mine, and I felt a shiver run down my spine as he set the bowl down on the bedside table. The aroma of the soup wafted up, filling the room with a savory scent that made my stomach growl with hunger.

But it was his presence that made my heart race, his dark eyes that seemed to see right through me, his chiseled features that made my breath catch in my throat. I felt a flutter in my chest.

As I gazed up at Mr. Sanchez, his piercing eyes seemed to bore into my soul, filled with a deep concern that made my heart skip a beat. His chiseled features were etched with a gentle kindness, a stark contrast to the darkness that lurked beneath.

"Thank you," I whispered, my voice barely audible, as he carefully placed the steaming bowl on my bedside table.

I cradled my head in my hands, the headache threatening to consume me whole. Mr. Sanchez's voice was a gentle breeze on a summer day, soothing and calming. "Do you want me to feed you?"

I snapped my gaze up to his, my eyes locking onto his as he approached me. His movements were fluid, like a predator stalking its prey. I felt a shiver run down my spine as he drew closer, his presence suffocating me.

"You have school in an hour and a half," he reminded me, his voice low and husky. "It's better to get better now, whilst we still have time."

I struggled to remember, my mind foggy and unclear. "What day is it?" I asked, my voice laced with desperation.

"Thursday," he replied, his eyes never leaving mine. " Ensure you drink that, then meet me when you're finished."

As the door clicked shut behind Mr. Sanchez, I was left alone with my racing thoughts. "Mhm," I had replied, my voice barely a whisper, still trying to process the events of the previous day.

But as soon as he was gone, the floodgates opened. Memories came crashing back, like a tidal wave of emotion. I remembered walking into the house, my heart pounding in my chest. And then... oh god, and then I had kissed him. We had made out, our lips locked in a passionate embrace. I had pushed him onto the couch, my body taking over, driven by a desire I couldn't control.

My mind recoiled in shock as I relived the moment. Oh my god, that was my first kiss. With Mr. Sanchez. My teacher. I felt a wave of panic wash over me, followed by a deep sense of shame. What had I done? Had I made a huge mistake?

As I hid my face in my hands, the memories of our passionate encounter refused to be silenced. They haunted me, taunting me with the reality of what I had done. I couldn't believe I had let things go so far, that I had lost control and kissed him. And now, Mr. Sanchez knew. The thought sent a chill down my spine, making my skin crawl.

I felt paralyzed, unable to move or escape the weight of my shame. I wanted to bury myself, to dig a hole and suffocate myself with the sheets. Anything to avoid facing the consequences of my actions.

But most of all, I couldn't bear the thought of facing him. How could he come in here, look me in the eye, and pretend as if nothing had happened? Did he not feel the same shame, the same guilt? Or was he just that good at hiding it?

I couldn't shake the feeling that I was trapped, that I had made a mistake that would haunt me forever. And now, I had to face him, to see him every day in class, knowing what we had done. The thought was suffocating me, making it hard to breathe. How could I ever look him in the eye again?

As I reluctantly made my way downstairs, my heart racing with anticipation, I finally found him sitting in the chair, exuding an air of confidence and sophistication. He was dressed to perfection in his black trench coat and brown plaid suit, every detail tailored to accentuate his chiseled features.

His hair was styled in a sleek, slicked-back manner, showcasing his sharp jawline and piercing eyes. He looked drop-dead gorgeous, and I felt my breath catch in my throat as our gazes met. For a moment, we just stared at each other, the tension between us palpable.

I couldn't help but notice the way the suit hugged his broad shoulders, the way the coat emphasized his lean physique. He looked every bit the part of a suave, debonair gentleman, and I felt my cheeks flush with a mix of emotions - embarrassment, shame, and a hint of desire.

As I approached him, I couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking, if he was feeling the same awkwardness that I was. But his expression remained inscrutable, a mask of calmness that only added to his enigmatic allure.

As I stood there, frozen in a mix of emotions, the thought suddenly struck me.