Afternoon sun poured molten gold across the narrow corridor, filtering through shoji screens and painting geometric bands of light on the lacquered doors of Seiran University's faculty wing. Inside her small office, Jessica sat cocooned in a blend of Japanese austerity and foreign warmth—a potted fern thrived on the windowsill, rows of novels (Japanese, English, and the tangled languages of translation) lined the shelves, and above her desk, a clutch of handwritten cards and tiny trinkets gifted by grateful students added a kaleidoscope of color and sentiment.
At her desk, Jessica's posture was the practiced, effortless uprightness of someone constantly observed—shoulders back, ankles crossed, her breath slow and contained. Beneath the crisp blouse and the conservative navy skirt, her secrets pressed hot against her skin: the sky-blue lace of her bra, threaded through with silver, matched perfectly to the panties and the subtle tension of garter straps hugging her thighs. Every so often, as she worked, her fingers drifted down to brush the taut band beneath her skirt, a shiver darting up her spine—a private rebellion, a reminder of what was hidden beneath the neutral armor of her workday. The silk slip cooled her thighs, the sensation as delicious as it was forbidden, and she allowed herself the smallest smile, imagining—just for a moment—being discovered.
Her computer chimed; an email in Japanese, another in English, each window a code to be switched in and out, her mind flipping between languages as she scheduled a video call with a scholar in France, replied to a student's anxious question, then flagged an essay for further comment. Efficiency was its own form of armor—if she moved quickly, no one could see how often her thoughts drifted to her body, to tonight, to what she hoped and feared would happen. Every mundane task felt underlined by the pulse between her thighs, the sensation of silk and lace and dampness growing with every passing minute.
A knock broke the rhythm, soft and deliberate. Jessica looked up just as the door slid open. Yuuta Aizawa filled the frame: tall, angular, a fox's confidence in every gesture, hair swept just unruly enough to suggest carelessness. In one hand, he carried a stack of annotated poetry books, his other tucked in the pocket of his suit pants. His gaze slid from her face to her collarbone, lingering there before rising again—his mouth curving into a slow, almost private smile.
"Jessica-sensei, your third-year seminar papers," he said, his English touched by a velvet Japanese accent, every syllable polished, intimate. His voice always seemed to hover just on the edge of laughter, like a secret only he was privy to.
She stood, smoothing her skirt unconsciously, feeling the slip caress her skin. When she reached for the papers, their hands brushed. The touch was brief, electric—a pulse of awareness she felt in her wrist, her chest, even lower. "Arigatou, Aizawa-sensei," she replied, her Japanese formal and light, giving away nothing of the way her heart tripped in her chest. She held his gaze, professional, but saw the flicker of hunger that crossed his features: the extra beat he lingered, the way his eyes dipped to the edge of her blouse before sliding back to her face.
"Big plans tonight?" he asked, shifting his weight, making it clear he wasn't in a hurry to go. His voice was a little lower now, the undercurrent teasing but edged, as if he dared her to say something improper.
Jessica arched an eyebrow, lips curving with a practiced hint of amusement. "Anniversary," she answered, switching back to English, letting the word hang in the space between them, heavier than it should be. "Two years."
Aizawa's smile broadened, sly and knowing. "Your husband's a lucky man," he said softly, holding her gaze just a second too long.
For a moment, Jessica couldn't look away. The air thickened, pulses ticking in silence, her breath caught somewhere between her chest and her throat. There was a flash—a hot, almost reckless urge to flirt back, to match the weight of his attention with something just as brazen. But instead, she only laughed, a short, practiced sound, and turned away, pretending to adjust her computer screen.
He left with a slow, parting nod, the door sliding shut behind him with a hush. The space he'd occupied seemed to shimmer for a second, charged and unsettled. Jessica stood there, clutching the stack of papers, her fingers trembling faintly. Beneath her prim exterior, her heart hammered, her thighs pressed tight to hold in the heat pooling at her core. For a wild instant, she wondered what it would feel like to let her hand slip beneath her skirt right now, to let herself go, to taste the risk. But the moment passed, shuttered under layers of decorum and dread.
She set the papers down, took a deep breath, and forced her mind back to the hum of emails and essays, her eyes tracking the last slant of sunlight spilling over the spines of books. Yet her pulse thudded with a quiet hunger, her body alive with the memory of his gaze—and the secrets she kept hidden, even from herself.