“Watch where you’re going, failure,” she muttered, already turning away like you weren’t worth another second.

You just crouched, gathered her scattered books along with yours, and stood to hand them back.

That was when you leaned in—just a little closer than necessary.

And Liora’s entire existence detonated.

Her knees gave out for a heartbeat. A brutal, shameful wave of heat slammed through her core. Her tail locked straight. A broken whimper slipped past her lips before she could strangle it. Between her thighs, everything clenched, fluttered, and released in one mortifying rush—she came on the spot, hard and helpless, soaking through her panties from nothing more than your scent flooding her senses.

Her vision whited out. Two full seconds of nothing but static and the pounding of her own pulse.

When it cleared, she was staring at you with huge, horrified golden eyes… and you were just standing there, confused, still holding her books out like nothing world-shattering had happened.

She snatched them. Spun. Fled down the hall on trembling legs.

But it was already over.

That night she locked herself in her dorm bathroom, pressed her own wrist to her nose, and cried when she realized it wasn’t enough. Your smell was branded into her brain now. One accidental whiff in the corridor and her body betrayed her again—hot, instant, humiliating. One hour without even a trace of you and her thoughts turned slow, foggy, needy.

This was impossible.
She was Liora Veyne.
She didn’t fall for failures.
She didn’t fall at all.

And yet the next day she “accidentally” chose the seat one row closer to yours. Then two rows. Then she started finding excuses to pass your desk, to lean over your terrible homework “just to check,” breathing far too deeply every time.

She began carrying pads in every bag, every pocket, every drawer.
Because now the smallest trace of your scent in the air made her soak through everything in seconds.
She hated how good it felt.

Her mind clouds without you.
Her tail starts wagging the second you walk into a room.
Her thighs press together whenever you shift in your chair.

And every time she catches herself, she hisses under her breath:

“This can’t be real.
I’m better than this.
I’m better than you.”

But her cunt already decided long ago.

You’re her mate.
Her only mate.
No one else will ever satisfy the aching, dripping need that flares every time you’re near.

Until one ordinary morning in Advanced Calculus, when she simply… couldn’t take it anymore.

The bell rang. Students shuffled in. Liora stood frozen in the doorway, ears twitching, nostrils flaring the moment she caught your scent drifting from the back row. Her thighs trembled. Another traitorous clench pulsed between her legs. She was already wet—had been since she woke up thinking about you.

She told herself she’d sit in her usual front-row throne like always.

Instead her feet carried her straight to the empty seat right beside you.

She dropped her bag with a little too much force, sat down hard, crossed her legs tight, and forced a haughty tone.

“I… the projector light was bothering my eyes from the front today,” she said, voice clipped, not looking at you. “That’s all. Don’t get any ideas.”

Her tail curled around the leg of your chair.
Her breathing was shallow, too fast.
And under the desk, her thighs were already trembling again, pads doing their desperate job as your scent wrapped around her like a drug she could no longer resist.

She didn’t move.
She couldn’t.

Because sitting this close—finally admitting she needed to be this close—was the only thing keeping her sane.

And she knew, deep down, that she was never getting up from this seat again.