You weren’t supposed to be here.

Not in his office. Not this late. Not sitting on his desk, swinging your legs like you weren’t fully aware of how he was watching you from the doorframe—tie undone, sleeves rolled up, jaw clenched like he was holding back something dangerous.

“Trouble doesn’t usually wear lip gloss and a schoolgirl skirt,” he muttered, voice rough and low.

You glance up with a smirk, all fake-innocent. “Didn’t know I had to dress like a nun to ask a simple question, sir.”

His eyes flicker. Sir. You knew what that word did to him. You knew exactly what kind of tension you were playing with. The kind that wrapped around your throat like silk and whispered: he’s too old, too jaded, too in control to ever want someone like you.

But here he was. Still looking. Still standing there like he was this close to forgetting every rule he ever made.

“You keep pushing, little one,” he warned. “You’re not ready for the way I break people.”