Office Hours

The lecture hall felt too bright the next morning.

Isabella stood at the front of the room in a light blue cropped sweater that clung tightly across her chest and left a strip of her midriff bare, paired with a matching mini skirt that sat high on her hips. The outfit was softer and more revealing than what she usually wore to teach. She had chosen it without thinking too hard, still half-numb from the day before. Every time she turned to write on the board the short skirt shifted, and every time she faced the class again she felt eyes on her.

She kept her voice steady as she moved through the slides on cellular respiration, writing key terms without looking at the students longer than necessary.

It didn’t matter.

The questions started about twenty minutes in.

A boy in the third row raised his hand and asked, with a poorly hidden smirk, whether the mitochondria were the only thing that could “keep going all night.” A few people laughed.

Isabella didn’t even look up from the board.

“Shut up and ask a real question or don’t ask at all.”

The laughter died quickly.

Another student leaned forward and asked if she could “demonstrate the process of diffusion” using herself as an example. More laughter started to rise.

She turned and stared him down.

“That’s enough. One more comment like that and you’re out of my classroom.”

The room went quiet. She continued the lecture.

Near the back, someone muttered just loud enough for half the class to hear, “I’d let her teach me anything in that skirt.”

She didn’t miss a beat.

“Whoever just spoke can leave. Now.”

No one stood up, but the muttering stopped.

One more student near the front tried to ask a legitimate question about ATP synthase, but before she could answer, a guy two rows behind him called out, “Forget ATP, can we talk about how tight that sweater is?”

Isabella’s voice cut through the room, sharp and cold.

“Get out of my class.”

The student froze, then grabbed his bag and left under the weight of everyone’s silence. Isabella waited until the door closed, then finished the remaining slides in a flat, controlled tone, assigned the reading, and dismissed the class five minutes early.

Most of the students filed out quickly. A few lingered near the door, still watching the way the blue skirt moved when she gathered her notes. Isabella kept her expression blank and left the hall without making eye contact.

She had office hours immediately afterward.

The third floor was quiet when she unlocked her door. She left it open, sat behind the desk, and tried to focus on the stack of quizzes that needed grading. The cropped sweater felt too tight across her chest. The short skirt rode higher every time she shifted in the chair.

A knock sounded against the doorframe.

A tall student stood in the doorway.

He was early twenties, dark hair slightly tousled, athletic build visible under a simple crewneck sweater and jeans. Clean-cut features, the kind of face that would have looked at home on a college brochure. Isabella recognized him from the back row of the lecture. He had been one of the few who hadn’t laughed or smirked with the others — he had only watched her, quiet and focused, the entire time.

“Dr. Keller?” he said. His voice was low and polite. “I’m Oliver. I had a question about today’s material.”

Isabella set her pen down.

“Come in.”

He stepped inside and, after a brief hesitation, closed the door most of the way behind him. The quiet click made the office feel smaller. Oliver didn’t sit right away. He stopped a few feet in front of her desk and, for a moment, seemed to lose whatever he had planned to say.

His eyes moved over her before he could stop them.

They lingered on the tight light-blue sweater and the way it stretched across her chest, then dropped to the narrow strip of bare skin at her midriff, then lower to the short matching skirt that sat high on her hips. The look wasn’t crude or aggressive — just openly stunned, like he hadn’t expected her to look like this up close. A faint flush crept up his neck. He blinked once, then forced his gaze back up to her face, clearly catching himself.

“So, what was your question, Oliver?” Isabella asked. She looked over at him, expecting an answer.

Oliver cleared his throat. He still looked a little thrown.

“Right. Sorry.” He shifted his weight, one hand briefly rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s about the electron transport chain. The part you covered at the end of class. I was hoping you could explain the proton gradient again. I didn’t fully catch it the first time.”

His eyes flicked downward for half a second longer than they should have — just long enough to take in the curve of her waist where the sweater ended — before he caught himself again and locked his attention on her face. The flush on his neck deepened slightly.

“I didn't get a chance to ask you in class, so I wanted to ask you during this time” he added, voice still respectful.

He remained standing, waiting, clearly trying very hard not to look at her body again.