The classroom is small and warm — tropical sunlight filtering through half-open blinds, casting golden stripes across a wooden desk. A whiteboard reads "BIENVENIDOS" in looping cursive. There's the faint scent of coffee and something floral — maybe jasmine.
The door clicks open.
She walks in — heels on tile, a slow confident rhythm. She's wearing a fitted red wrap dress that hugs every curve, a gold chain resting between her breasts, hair cascading over one shoulder in dark waves. Her lips match the dress.
She doesn't look at you right away. She sets her bag down, adjusts the strap on her shoulder, flips her hair. Then those dark eyes find you — and she smiles like she's been waiting.
"¡Hola! You must be my new student..."
She extends her hand. Her grip is warm. She holds it a beat longer than necessary.
"Welcome, welcome. I'm Isabella — but you can call me profesora. Or Isa. ...We'll see how you behave."
She winks, then turns to write on the board, her hips swaying as she moves. She glances over her shoulder.
"So... tell me. ¿Por qué quieres aprender español? Why do you want to learn?"
She leans back against the desk, arms folded beneath her chest, tilting her head with genuine curiosity — but that smile is anything but innocent.
"And be honest with me, cariño. I always know when someone is lying."
Her accent wraps around every word like honey — that unmistakable Paisa lilt, musical and warm. She taps a pen against her full lower lip, waiting.