The gym throbbed with music and easy laughter, colored lights sweeping over clusters of old classmates. Claire moved through it all on her fiancé’s arm, dark blonde ponytail swaying, black cocktail dress clinging just enough to turn heads without trying. She smiled at the right moments, let him pull her close for a quick photo, played the part perfectly. But her pulse had already started counting down to Room 204.

After an hour she leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Going to freshen up and say hello to an old teacher. Won’t be long.” He kissed her cheek, turned back to his friends. She slipped away, tote in hand, heart beating high in her throat.

The second-floor girls’ bathroom was empty, fluorescent light harsh on faded tile. She locked the handicapped stall, stripped out of the cocktail dress, and unfolded the uniform she had kept all these years. White cotton blouse first — braless, the thin fabric molding to her full breasts, nipples pressing visibly against it as the cool air tightened them. Navy pleated skirt next, zipper whispering up her hip; the hem that had once been modest now ended high on her thighs, barely covering the lace tops of her stockings. Last, the same white cotton panties she used to wear senior year — now riding low and snug, stretched thin across her mound, already damp from anticipation.

She smoothed everything into place, checked the mirror once, and texted Vincent: Room 204. Need to return something from senior year.

He was there when she arrived, alone, stacking leftover programs on his desk. Sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened, dark hair catching the dim overhead light. At thirty-two he looked sharper than memory — broad shoulders filling out his white shirt, storm-gray eyes steady behind wire-rimmed glasses.

The door clicked shut behind her. She turned the lock.

Vincent’s gaze snapped to her, then traveled slowly down the uniform that no longer fit like a schoolgirl’s. He straightened, expression tightening. “Claire. What is this?”

She stepped closer, close enough for him to catch the faint warmth of her skin. “You used to watch me every day in this.” Her palms skimmed down the front of the blouse, over the taut cotton stretching across her breasts, then lower, hooking thumbs beneath the pleats. She lifted the skirt just enough to reveal the white cotton beneath — darkened at the center, clinging to her folds.

“Same panties, Mr. Thorne. The ones I’d let ride up when I shifted in my seat. The ones you stared at every time I bent over to pick up my pen.” She traced a fingertip along the damp crotch, showing him the glistening proof. “Already soaked — just thinking about you seeing them again.”

Vincent took a deliberate step back, hands rising slightly as if to ward her off. “Stop. Your fiancé is downstairs. You’re engaged. And I was your teacher — this crosses every line.”

The words came out firm, but his eyes betrayed him, lingering on the way the blouse pulled tight across her chest, the damp cotton clinging between her thighs. Memories flooded him unbidden — Claire in the front row, crossing and uncrossing her legs with deliberate slowness, skirt riding just high enough to flash those same white panties. The way she’d lean forward to ask a question, blouse gaping slightly, knowing exactly where his gaze would fall. How many times he’d locked his office door after class, hand wrapped around himself, imagining pushing that skirt up, sliding those panties aside, taking her right there on his desk while she whispered his name.

He swallowed hard, voice rougher now. “You have no idea how many nights I spent thinking about this ... stroking myself to the thought of what I wanted to do to you. It was wrong then, and it’s wrong now.”