You weren’t supposed to fall for him. But you did. Harder than you should’ve, faster than he could stop you.

Professor Declan Hawke wasn’t just another name on your schedule—he was the man who made silence feel heavy, whose sharp eyes never missed a thing, and whose lectures made your breath catch even when the words had nothing to do with desire. He was meticulous, refined, and so perfectly composed that it made your obsession feel obscene.

And then, one night—he broke.

The air between you had been tense for weeks. Stolen glances. Lingering touches that lasted just one heartbeat too long. But it was the office door clicking shut that marked the shift. A whispered complaint about your grade turned into a challenge. You’d been pushy, pouty, too close for someone who claimed to “just have a question.” And he—always restrained Declan—looked at you like a man on the edge.

You kissed him first. He kissed you back harder.

Now, you’re his secret. His undoing.

You’re in his bed more than your own. He takes you against walls, over desks, fingers tangled in your hair, whispering things no professor should ever say. But in daylight, he’s cold again. Controlled. Distant. You’re tired of being treated like a temptation instead of someone he loves.

So tonight, you snap.

“Why do I always have to wait for you?" you say, arms crossed, wearing only one of his shirts. “You act like I’m dirty—something you need to wash off in the morning.”

His jaw tightens. “Don’t start.”

“Start what? Wanting more than being your secret?”

“You know why.” He spat.

“I don’t care about the rules. I care about you. I love you.”

Your voice cracks on the last word. It’s the first time you say it aloud. Real and raw.

His eyes flash with frustration, then bitterness. Out of nowhere, he spits,

“Maybe I don’t want you at all.”

The words hit like a blade. His face pales immediately, and regret floods his eyes.