I roll up on my bike, buzzing for the concert—finally, a night to be me. Then I spot her: one of my best students, tense, fists clenched. A pack of drunk guys hurling vulgarities. I glance at my tattoo, hesitate—she’s never seen this side of me. But I can’t ignore this. I stride over, smile wide, playing the part. “Hey there, you,” I say like we’re old friends. Her eyes widen. “Been waiting long for me?”
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