Bonjour Alex

Eric could have been my younger brother. Or a shy, bookish cousin—the kind who blushed when spoken to, who hesitated before answering, who avoided eye contact when the conversation became too direct. In another life, we could have grown up together, passing notes under the dinner table at family gatherings, whispering secrets that felt too big for our small world.

It could have been simple. Innocent.

But fate had other plans.

The moment he walked through the doors of the language school, everything shifted. I remember it too vividly—the crisp autumn air clinging to his coat, the way he hesitated just inside, shifting his weight awkwardly from foot to foot. He adjusted the strap of his bag, his fingers tightening around the worn leather as though it was a lifeline, buying himself time. His wavy brown hair was slightly damp at the ends, tousled in that way that suggested he had run a hand through it too many times, nervous.

And then I caught the scent. Calvin Klein Obsession Night. Sweet, musky, fresh—and utterly intoxicating. It wrapped around him, clinging to his sweater, leaving a trace in the air between us. He scanned the room, his hazel eyes flickering over the reception desk before landing on me.

And then, something unexpected happened. His expression changed. Not with confidence, not with recognition, but with something closer to quiet panic. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something but had forgotten how.

I arched a brow.

He blinked—too quickly—then looked down, his fingers gripping the strap of his bag even tighter. A sharp inhale, a barely-there exhale. And then, finally, he spoke.

“Bonjour.”

Soft. Careful. Uncertain. As if he wasn’t sure if he should be speaking at all. His accent brushed against the syllables with a delicate hesitation, like he was testing the words before fully committing to them. And though his Italian was flawless when he introduced himself moments later, it was that first, tentative greeting that lodged itself in my mind.

Eric.

Twenty-five years old. New to the school. Lector of French and Italian. And utterly unprepared for me. I should have known then. Should have walked away before the curiosity took hold.

But instead, I smiled. And that was my first mistake.

It started so innocently. Twice a week, I saw him in the halls, in the break room, in passing between classes. We exchanged polite words—the kind that meant nothing.

How are you? Busy day? The students drive you crazy yet?

And yet, somehow, it was always him. He was always a little hesitant when he approached me, his hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers, his gaze flickering between me and some invisible point just beyond my shoulder. When I spoke to him, he nodded quickly—too quickly—before answering in a voice just a little too soft for a man his height.

And his eyes… They never stayed on me for too long. Always skittish, always darting away just before something settled between us. At first, I thought it was just shyness. Some men were like that—quiet, polite, reserved.

But Eric… Eric wasn’t just shy. He was completely and utterly inexperienced. Not just in conversation, not just in flirtation—but in everything.

I realized it in the way he reacted to the most innocent touches—a brush of my fingers when handing him a file, the accidental graze of my arm as we passed in the narrow hallway. He would stiffen, his breath catching as if the contact was too much. As if he had never felt it before. As if I was too much. And God, the way that knowledge settled inside me…

I told myself it was just amusement. That his nervousness was nothing more than an interesting quirk, a harmless detail in my otherwise predictable days. But every time he walked by, I could feel my body betray me—heat pooling in my skin, an unspoken ache in my chest, a desperate, foolish want I had no right to feel. And the worst part? I think he felt it too.

The problem with Eric wasn’t just that he was younger. It wasn’t just that I was his superior in the school’s hierarchy. It wasn’t just that I had a life outside of this place and a sense of responsibility that should have kept me grounded.

No, the problem with Eric was that he noticed things. Too much. Too easily. Not in a bold, cocky way—but in the way shy people do. Quietly. Intently. Like he was memorizing the details without ever meaning to.

The way my fingers trembled when he brushed past me. The way I glanced at my phone after he left the room, as if checking for a message he’d never send. The way my lips parted, ever so slightly, when he spoke in French, his voice low, uncertain, almost like he was afraid of saying too much.

Eric watched me like he was waiting for something. Waiting for me to slip. And God help me, I think I was waiting for it too.

I knew I was in trouble the day he switched from formalities to familiarity.

“Tu travailles trop.”

Just three words. You work too much. Not Vous. Not the polite, distant way he spoke to the others.

“Tu.”

Like we were something else. Like we were something more.

I should have corrected him. Should have reminded him of boundaries, professionalism, the importance of keeping a proper distance. But the sound of it—the way the syllables curled off his tongue, the quiet slip of it, like he hadn’t even realized what he was doing—made my pulse skip. It was dangerous. It was a mistake. And I didn’t stop him.

That evening, after everyone had left the building, I found myself lingering. It wasn’t intentional. At least, that’s what I told myself. There was always more work to do—emails to send, student registrations to finalize, last-minute reports to review.

I stood in the supply room, reaching for a stack of course brochures on the top shelf, stretching just enough to feel the hem of my blouse rise slightly against my back. The room was quiet, the faint hum of the printer in the corner the only sound.

But the moment the halls fell silent, the moment the last instructor left, I felt it. That pull. That electric awareness. I wasn’t alone. I heard the footsteps first—unhurried, careful, coming from the hallway.

I didn’t need to turn to know it was him. Something about the way the air shifted, about the subtle scent that trailed behind him—citrus, sea salt, something distinctly him—was enough.

Eric hesitated in the doorway, and I knew—he was debating whether to step closer or turn away.

I glanced over my shoulder, meeting his gaze just as he did step forward.

“Do you need help?” he asked, his voice quieter than usual, almost reluctant.

“I’ve got it,” I answered, but my fingers just barely grazed the edge of the brochures, not quite able to pull them down.

He exhaled softly, then moved in behind me. Not too close. But close enough. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body, the subtle hesitancy in his breath. Close enough that if I let myself lean back—just slightly—I would feel the firm press of his chest against my spine.

Eric reached past me, his arm brushing along mine as he took hold of the stack effortlessly. The scent of his cologne—Obsession Night—intensified, clean and sharp, like salt air after the rain.

And then—he shifted. Just a fraction. Just enough.

His torso moved closer, the slightest movement, the smallest adjustment in space, but suddenly, the front of his shirt—the warmth of his stomach beneath it—hovered dangerously close to my chest.

I wasn’t wearing a bra. I never actually wore it. And in that split second, I wondered if he noticed. If he felt it—the heat of me, the way my breath hitched, the way my body tensed but didn’t pull away. If he realized that the only thing between us was a few inches of air and the fabric of my blouse, too thin, too weightless to be a real barrier.

His breath audibly caught, just for a moment. And then—he stepped back. Too quickly. Too abruptly. As if he’d touched something forbidden and realized it too late. The tension in the room was suffocating. He lowered the brochures into my waiting hands, his fingers brushing against mine. A whisper of skin. A jolt of electricity.

“Here.” His voice was rougher than before, his gaze flickering away just as fast.

“Thanks,” I murmured, but my voice was different too. Softer. Warmer. A thread of something unspoken woven into the single syllable.

Neither of us moved. Not right away. His lips quirked, but there was something else in his expression—something hesitant, uncertain. He wasn’t used to this, whatever this was. He wasn’t the type of man who knew how to flirt without tumbling over himself. And somehow, that made it worse.

“You should wear a sweater. It’s cold here in the evenings” he added shyly as if avoiding the sight of my treacherous blouse.

I immediately blushed and crossed my arms over my chest. “Yes, it’s extremely cold in the office today, I have to remember to take a sweater with me tomorrow.”

The air between us thickened. I should have walked away. But I didn’t move. Not until he finally stepped aside, allowing me to pass.

“Goodnight, Eric,” I said, keeping my voice steady.

“Bonne nuit,” he replied, softer this time.

And as I walked down the hallway, feeling the weight of his stare lingering behind me, I knew—this was only the beginning.