Student X Teacher Reader Novels & Stories

He explained. Pierre laughed slightly and said, "Oh? Mr. Edward, I saw you reading an R18 book though." He teased him as he exposed the teacher, Mr. Edward. Mr. Edward glared at Pierre when he was exposed. His cheeks became redder and were more embarrassed when the teachers around were laughing at him.

The teacher was looking through his digi pad analyzing something while he said to his students to look at their lessons and read them for a bit. 'Eight people have failed their first test it seems, worthless brats!', muttered the teacher under his breath, carefully analyzing the reports of everyone in the classroom. Fifteen minutes passed away, and the teacher told everyone to listen again. 'Rudolph, Trent, Lutia, Mandy, Brendon, Sheila, Henry and Sylvia, stand up cadets', said the teacher. All the eight students stood up and looked at the teacher with puzzled looks on their faces. 'Congratulations '. The teacher looked at the students with a smile and glanced at his digi pad, marking someth

Something warmer. You are not interested in this guy. You are in charge here. You are his teacher. Except that he isn’t a boy anymore. And the way he’s looking at her? There’s no look here of a student in need of guidance. It’s the look of a guy trying to remember what her skin smells like. Lena jerks in place, snapping the marker cap louder than she means to. “Let’s start easy,” she says, as her voice takes just enough command of her to keep her upright. “What is the last book you read?”

He was watching me with the patient expression, the one that meant he was going to wait as long as it took, and the problem with that expression was that it always worked. I reached into my bag. Pulled out the note. Slid it across the desk without looking at him. He picked it up. Read it. His jaw did the thing — one small movement, barely there, gone immediately. He folded it back up and slid it into his own pocket. "Hey," I said. "That's mine." "I know." He opened his textbook. "I'll give it back." "When?" "When I know who wrote it." The teacher started talking. I faced forward. Felt Rhys beside me doing the same and underneath the lesson, underneath the noise and the normal Friday morning

he replied while still focusing on what he's reading. I narrowed my eyes. “It's an excuse when you say it like that.” “It is for me.” That made me scoff quietly. But before I could tease him again, the teacher suddenly stopped mid-explanation. “Ms. Lourencia, can you please answer question number three?” the teacher called my name. I swallowed hard and stared at the board. What even was number three? Something about the lesson… energy… cells… or—Nothing. Behind me, I still heard the faint sound of a page turning. Of course he was still reading like this was a library.

A young teacher welcomed her warmly. "Are you passing through?" "Yes." "I wondered if I might watch today's lesson." "Of course." Nova quietly took a seat at the back of the classroom. The lesson was about reading. Most of the children eagerly sounded out words from handmade books. But one little boy remained unusually quiet. The teacher knelt beside him. "Can you read the next sentence?" The child lowered his head. "I can't." Nova noticed something. The pages of his book were badly worn. Several were missing entirely.

The person who sent seventeen readings calls on a Wednesday morning in June. Their name is Clara. She is thirty eight years old. She is a teacher in a secondary school in a northern city, and she has been carrying something alone for eight years that has nothing to do with financial methodology or criminal architecture or any of the specific content the archive documents. She lost a student.

At the ceremony where my mother, Helena Marlow, received the Best Homeroom Teacher award, the parents wept with gratitude. They praised her for nurturing the students successfully without ever resorting to harsh discipline, and for helping them all to excellent results. But no one knew that the path to their children’s success had been paved by Mom, using me as a warning to others. When someone in the class stole money, cheated on an exam, or got into a romantic relationship, I was the one punished. During the ceremony, the principal, Ms. Wanda Ambrose, stepped onto the stage to present her award. She asked, “Ms. Marlow, you have so many outstanding students in your class. Which student

Ryder murmured beside me, his lips barely moving. “I am,” I whispered back through clenched teeth. “Not to her. To me.” I froze. Heat crawled up my neck, shame and anger twisting in my chest. I didn’t dare look at him. The teacher’s voice droned on about themes and metaphors, her tone steady, patient. Around me, students scribbled notes, some whispering quietly when they thought she wasn’t watching. For them, this was just another class. For me, it was torture.

another student added. Alpha Xavier walked into the class out of the blue, and this time he was also alone, without his usual minions, catching me in his line of sight. His hazel eyes locked on mine, and he winked, but I rolled mine in disgust. “Get up,” he ordered a he-wolf at my left-hand side. The student stood immediately without question, and Xavier took the seat beside me just as the teacher walked into the class. “Good morning, students. I’m Miss Kate, your math teacher,” she announced, already writing something on the board.