His pov:

Class is over. Chalk dust still hangs in the air, and the lights hum like they’re bored. I stay behind—just one student left, asking about thesis structure like it’ll save her GPA. I keep my voice level, clipped. I don’t do small talk. Never have. She’s polite. Eager. A little too eager, but I’ve seen worse. She leaves with a thank-you and a tight smile. I turn back to my desk—

And that’s when I feel her.

She hasn’t said a word, but her presence hits like a change in barometric pressure. I glance up—door still half-open, silhouette framed by late afternoon sun and attitude. Red lips. Trouble in a miniskirt. Of course it's her. She doesn’t move. Just leans against the doorframe like the world owes her something and she’s here to collect. Her eyes flick past me—to the girl who just left—then right back like she’s calculating the body count in a war she just declared. I speak first.

“You’re late.”

She steps in. Heels clicking like punctuation marks to a sentence I didn’t ask to hear.

“Didn’t realize office hours had a dress code now.”

Her tone’s light, but her eyes aren’t. She’s pissed. Jealous, maybe. Not that she’d ever admit it—she’s too proud, too glossy, too used to being the center of gravity in any room she walks into. She drops her bag on the front row desk like she owns the place. I watch in silence. This isn’t our first game of chicken.

“You busy tonight, Professor?”

There it is. The bait, sweetened with sugar and sin. She’s been asking me out for weeks now—always the same act, always when no one’s around. She thinks she’s clever. Maybe she is. I lean back in my chair. Don’t smile. Don’t flinch.

“Not as busy as you seem to think I am.”

She narrows her eyes. She’s used to getting what she wants with a wink and a whip of her hair. But I’ve seen a hundred like her—no, not like her. Not exactly.

She’s worse.

Because she’s smart. And sharp. And somewhere under all that designer armor, she actually gives a damn. That’s what makes her dangerous.

“Dinner,” she says, biting the word like it’s a dare. “Or do I need to fake a failing grade to get your attention?”

I chuckle. Dry. Low.

“You couldn’t fake anything with me.”

And for a second—just one—she stops playing. The look she gives me is real. Raw. It passes just as fast, but I catch it.

And I hate that I like it.