The morning sunlight poured down on Rosewood Academy like liquid gold, making the marble walls gleam and the high glass windows shine as if they belonged to a cathedral rather than a school.
Erwin adjusted his coat, pulled the contract out of his pocket, and sighed for what felt like the hundredth time that morning.
"Fitness Instructor," the contract read in neat black ink. Simple. Safe. Easy paycheck.
Or so he thought.
Erwin wasn't exactly a man destined for greatness. He wasn't a warrior, or a knight, or a wizard. He was just a man who happened to need money. And if the prestigious Rosewood Academy—the most elite school for nobles and prodigies—wanted to pay him to stand around and teach spoiled rich kids how to stretch, then who was he to complain?
"Easy job, good money, free meals," he muttered under his breath, walking up the wide stone steps. "I can handle that. I don't even have to fight monsters. What could possibly go wrong?"
The gods, if they were listening, probably laughed.
The first sign that something was off came when he entered the staff wing. He expected a bunch of burly gym instructors, sweaty uniforms, and racks of wooden practice swords. Instead, a stern-looking secretary in glasses shoved a stack of papers into his arms.
"Professor Erwin? Excellent. You're late," she snapped. "Your students are waiting."
"Late?" Erwin blinked. "But my class doesn't start until—"
"Don't argue." She pushed him down the hallway so hard he almost dropped the papers. "The students are assembled. They've been very patient. Do try not to ruin their education."
Before Erwin could even ask what she meant, the door in front of him swung open, and he found himself face-to-face with a classroom full of young women staring at him.
Not just any women—these were the kind of noble-born beauties you'd expect to see in paintings. Silken dresses, flawless skin, jewelry that probably cost more than his entire life savings.
And all of them were looking at him like he was about to reveal the secrets of the universe.
Erwin swallowed. "Uh. Hello?"
One of the girls—tall, dark-haired, with sharp grey eyes—crossed her arms. Her blouse clung tight across her chest, and the faintest smirk played across her lips. "So. You're the new intimacy professor?"
Erwin froze. "…The what?"
The classroom erupted in whispers.
Intimacy professor?
He glanced down at the stack of papers in his arms. The top page read, in bold letters:
Course Title: Intimacy Studies 101
Instructor: Erwin Fletcher
His soul left his body for a moment.
"…I think there's been a mistake."
Erwin stood frozen at the front of the classroom, his brain frantically flipping through excuses. Fitness. I'm supposed to be teaching fitness. Stretches, maybe running. Not… this.
Unfortunately, the students weren't giving him time to think.
A girl with soft blonde hair tied in ribbons raised her hand shyly. She wore a pale blue gown that glittered with embroidery, and she had the wide, earnest eyes of someone who thought every word out of a teacher's mouth was holy truth.
"Professor," she asked sweetly, "what exactly is… a kiss?"
Erwin nearly dropped the papers. "A—what?"
A ripple of giggles passed through the room.
The blonde girl blushed, clutching her notebook to her chest. "I–I mean, I've read about it in novels. The heroes always steal one from the princess, and she turns red and faints, and then the author says they fall in love forever. But what does it actually mean? How does it… work?"
Erwin blinked at her. Clara Whitmore, he remembered from the roster. Noble family. Innocent as a lamb.
"Uh…" He rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, technically, a kiss is… you know… lips. Touching."
The classroom immediately leaned forward as if he'd just revealed forbidden knowledge.
"That's it?" a husky voice interrupted.
This time it was the dark-haired swordswoman at the back—Marianne Holt. She sat with her arms crossed, posture stiff like a soldier, her sharp eyes narrowing at him. Unlike Clara, she didn't look shy at all. In fact, she looked almost disappointed.
"All that fuss for just lips touching?" Marianne scoffed. "That sounds pathetic."
Clara gasped. "No! It's supposed to be romantic! My mother says it's the most magical thing in the world!"
"Magical?" Marianne smirked. "If it's that magical, then why don't you demonstrate it for us, Professor?"
The entire room went silent.
Erwin choked. "Excuse me?!"
A sly laugh came from the corner. That was Ivy Blackwood—the mage girl. Short dark curls framed her face, and she leaned lazily on her desk, one leg crossed over the other, her lips curling into a wicked smile.
"Oh, I like that idea," Ivy purred. A faint glow shimmered in her palm, and suddenly, above her hand, an illusion appeared—two glowing, misty figures leaning toward each other. Their faces met in a soft, exaggerated kiss.
The illusion sparkled like starlight, accompanied by an overly dramatic mwah! sound.
The classroom erupted into laughter.
Erwin turned red. "Stop that! You can't just—"
"Oh, relax, Professor," Ivy teased. "We're here to learn, aren't we? Shouldn't you be a little more… hands-on?"
At that moment, Clara squeaked, buried her face in her hands, and promptly slid halfway under her desk.
"Y-You can't just show it like that!" she squealed, voice muffled. "It's indecent!"
Ivy smirked. "Oh, don't be so dramatic. It's just lips. Or is our poor princess afraid of a little practice?"
Marianne slammed her fist onto her desk with a grin. "Practice, huh? Then I challenge the professor. If a kiss is really such a big deal, prove it."
"WHAT?!" Erwin's voice cracked so loudly it echoed off the marble walls.
Erwin's pulse hammered in his ears. He wasn't sure what part of this situation was worse—the fact that a swordswoman was openly challenging him, the fact that a mischievous mage was egging her on, or the fact that a blushing princess was peeking through her fingers like she secretly wanted to see the outcome.
All of them were staring at him.
Waiting.
Expecting.
Like he was supposed to lean forward, demonstrate a kiss, and treat it like a routine math equation.
Erwin slammed the papers down onto the desk. "Absolutely not! There will be no 'demonstrations.' This is an academic classroom, not—"
"Coward," Marianne muttered.
Erwin froze. "…What did you just call me?"
The sword trainee leaned back in her chair, smirking. Her sharp eyes glinted with challenge, and her voice carried a smug edge that made the other girls lean in closer.
"You're supposed to be the professor," Marianne said slowly, almost taunting. "But you can't even show us something as simple as a kiss? What's the matter? Too shy? Or…" she let her eyes flick over him in a way that made his skin crawl, "…inexperienced?"
The class gasped as if she had just drawn a sword in the middle of the room.
Even Ivy tilted her head with a mischievous grin. "Oho. Someone's calling out the teacher. This is going to be fun."
Clara practically turned purple. "M-Marianne, you can't just say things like that!"
"Why not?" Marianne leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, cleavage pressing against the edge of the desk with deliberate emphasis. "If he's supposed to be our guide in… intimacy, shouldn't he at least know the basics?"
The heat rushed to Erwin's face so fast he thought he might faint.
"Listen here," he snapped, pointing at her, "I was hired to teach fitness! This entire mess is a clerical error. A mistake. A cosmic joke at my expense. I'm not—"
Ivy cut in smoothly. "But your name is right there on the syllabus." She raised her palm again, projecting glowing letters in the air: Intimacy Studies 101 – Instructor: Erwin Fletcher.
He wanted to crawl into a hole.
"Professor," Ivy said with a sly smile, "are you telling us you're unqualified? That would be a shame. Because I, for one, was looking forward to a very… educational semester."
The way she licked her lips at the word educational made him stumble back a step.
Clara, desperate to defend him, shot to her feet. "D-Don't bully Professor Erwin! I'm sure he's very knowledgeable! He just… doesn't want to corrupt us with something so scandalous on the first day!"
Her voice cracked halfway through, and she immediately sat back down, face glowing red.
Marianne raised an eyebrow. "So he's both a coward and incompetent? Great professor we've got."
Erwin groaned into his hand. He had lost control of this classroom in less than ten minutes.
And then Ivy twisted the knife. "Tell you what," she said, conjuring her illusion again—this time exaggerating it further. The glowing figures not only kissed, but dipped dramatically, hands roaming in a ridiculous parody of passion. "If you won't demonstrate, Professor… I'll just do it for you."
The classroom exploded in laughter. Clara squealed and hid under her desk again. Marianne grinned like she'd won a battle. And Erwin…
Erwin seriously considered jumping out the window.
By the time the bell rang to dismiss class, Erwin felt like he'd aged ten years.
The students filed out in a noisy mess—Clara still blushing furiously, Marianne smug as ever, and Ivy whistling a tune like she'd just invented a new hobby called "torment the professor."
As soon as the last girl was gone, Erwin shoved the stack of papers into his bag, stormed down the hall, and muttered every curse word he knew under his breath.
"Nope. Absolutely not. I'm done. Forget the paycheck. I'll just sell my boots or something."
He marched straight toward the administration office, ready to hand in his resignation, when the very last person he wanted to see appeared: Dean Eleanor Graves.
Tall. Elegant. Sharp as a knife. Her long black dress swished against the marble floor as she approached, her heels clicking in perfect rhythm.
"Professor Fletcher," she greeted, voice smooth as silk but with the weight of a guillotine. "How was your first day?"
Erwin straightened, trying not to look like a man on the verge of nervous collapse. "Horrible. Awful. Worst mistake of my life. Which is why I'm here to resign."
The Dean tilted her head, amused. "Resign?"
"Yes," Erwin said firmly, shoving the papers at her. "I was hired for fitness. Someone, somewhere, screwed up. I am not cut out to teach a bunch of sheltered noble girls how to—" his voice cracked, "—kiss."
Dean Graves accepted the papers, flipped through them with unhurried grace, and then tapped her manicured finger on the contract's fine print.
Erwin leaned over to read.
And immediately felt his stomach drop.
Clause 7: Early resignation is subject to penalty of triple the salary advance.
"…Triple?" he whispered, throat dry.
Dean Graves smiled. "Yes. Of course, if you wish to break your contract, we will expect repayment by tomorrow morning. Otherwise…" Her eyes glinted with wicked delight. "…I look forward to observing your progress with Intimacy Studies 101."
Erwin nearly fainted.
"That's… extortion!"
"It's administration," the Dean corrected smoothly. She handed the papers back with a flourish. "Good luck, Professor Fletcher. Rosewood Academy has high expectations for you."
And with that, she swept away, leaving the faintest trace of expensive perfume in her wake.
Erwin stared at the contract in his hands, then at the ceiling, then muttered a single, heartfelt word:
"Shit."
⭐ End of Chapter 1
➡️ Next Chapter Preview:
Erwin barely survives his first class, but things are about to get worse. The next lesson? Anatomy basics. Unfortunately, his students are convinced a cucumber is a sacred fertility relic. Between Clara fainting, Marianne insisting on a "demonstration," and Ivy taking notes like a mad scientist, Erwin may not live to see the weekend.
➡️ CTA (Call to Action):
If this chapter made you laugh, drop a comment below and tell me which girl's reaction cracked you up the most! Don't forget to add this book to your library—Erwin's disasters are just getting started.