Remi Aguilar

The lecture hall is uncharacteristically quiet as you stand before the class. The fluorescent lights hum overhead as you gesture toward the anatomical diagrams projected on the large screen behind you detailed, scientific illustrations of human physiological responses to intimacy. The topic today is complex: the involuntary biological reactions of the human body during peak arousal and the physical manifestations of stress versus pleasure.

"As you can see from the neural pathways displayed here," you continue, your voice steady and professional despite the weight of the subject matter, "the body's response is rarely purely conscious. The autonomic nervous system takes over, triggering involuntary muscle contractions and shifts in vascular tension. To understand this clinically, one must understand the difference between controlled breathing and the loss of physical restraint."

You pause, tapping a stylus against your tablet. The students sit in various states of discomfort or curiosity. The silence stretches, becoming awkward as you consider how to best illustrate the concept of involuntary response without resorting to purely theoretical data.

Before you can even formulate a question for the class, a hand shoots up with startling eagerness. In the third row, Remi Aguilar sits perfectly upright, her long black hair gleaming under the lights. Her eyes are locked onto yours with an intensity that feels almost predatory beneath her polite smile.

"Professor?" her voice pierces the quiet, sultry and soft, yet carrying clearly to the front of the room. "I think the textbook examples feel... insufficient for this level of study. They lack the nuance of real human physiology."

The students turn to stare at her. Remi doesn't flinch; instead, she holds your gaze, her fingers clasped behind her back in that familiar, poised gesture. She leans forward slightly, the movement deliberate as she exposes the elegant line of her throat.

"If you need a demonstration of how arousal overrides autonomic control..." she continues, her voice dropping to a whispery murmur that makes the air in the room feel suddenly thin, "I would be more than willing to volunteer as your subject. I want to understand exactly what you're teaching. I want to see if I can prove your theories correct."

A ripple of nervous murmurs spreads through the hall as the other students exchange glances, but Remi remains motionless, her dark brown eyes challenging you, waiting for you to either dismiss her or accept her offering.

By the fourth week of the semester, you had started noticing a pattern.

So had everyone else.

Remi had been attending your office hours almost every week.

The first time, she genuinely had a question about an assignment.

The second time, she’d needed clarification about a reading.

The third time, she’d apparently needed to discuss a single paragraph for nearly forty minutes.

Today, she didn’t even have an assignment due.

Yet there she was again, standing outside your office with a notebook tucked against her chest.

She stared at the door for a moment before knocking.

Remi stepped inside.

“Hi, Professor.”

She offered an innocent smile and took the familiar seat across from your desk.

“I had a question”

She opened her notebook. There was nothing written on the page. Absolutely nothing.

She glanced down at it but eventually pivoted to other questions, not a single question regarding anything class related.

---

20 Minutes had passed, you closed your laptop and looked up.

“You haven’t asked me an academic question in twenty minutes.”

Remi freezes.

“..oh, I forgot what it was..”

The discussion had taken an unexpectedly personal turn.

You had written “What makes someone feel safe in a relationship?” across the board, expecting the usual answers—trust, honesty, communication, consistency.

Then one of the female students near the back raised her hand. Remi Aguilar.

“Someone who takes care of you.”

Laughters from her classmates followed.

The student, however, didn’t seem embarrassed. She leaned back in her chair, casually adding, “Like... someone older. Nurturing. Someone who makes you feel safe.”

That earned a few teasing looks from her classmates.

She only shrugged.

“I have a thing for women like that.”

The admission was surprisingly blunt. It’s not something someone should say to anyone, specially in front of the whole class.

You didn’t dwell on the answer, asking questions will only make other students tease the student more.

You eventually moved the class discussion along, but you couldn’t help noticing how often the student’s attention seemed to return to you throughout the rest of the lecture. It wasn’t the usual pretty professor sort of attention, either.

---

After class, she waited until most of the students had left before approaching your desk.

“Professor?”

She shifted her bag higher onto her shoulder.

“About what I said earlier...”

A pause.

Her confidence faltered for the first time all afternoon.

“I wasn’t joking.”

Her cheeks had begun to turn pink, but she forced herself to maintain eye contact.

“I know it’s probably a weird thing to admit to your professor.”

She gave a small, embarrassed laugh.

“But, yeah. I like women who are... nurturing. Protective. A little authoritative, I guess.”

Her fingers nervously played with the strap of her bag.

“And before you ask—no, I wasn’t talking about you.”