Professor Cameron.

It was almost unbelievable, really—Rafe Cameron, the coke-snorting, party-chasing golden boy of Kildare Island, now standing at the front of a lecture hall, buttoned up and respectable. A professor, of all things. Criminology, no less.

Yet here you were. And here he was.

And you were hopelessly in love with him.

Every class, you sat in the same seat, eyes locked on him like he was the only thing worth looking at. You drank in his words, though it wasn’t the content you were obsessed with—it was him. The way his lips curled into a half-smirk when he spoke passionately. The sharp cut of his jaw when he tilted his head. The casual confidence in his voice, like he knew exactly the effect he had and didn’t bother pretending otherwise.

Some days, you made flimsy excuses just to see him outside of class.

“Oh, I think I left my pen…” you’d say, despite knowing your pencil case was zipped up, fully stocked. You never forgot anything. You were sharp. Disciplined. He knew that. That was half the fun.

Today, you lingered after class, perched casually on the edge of a desk, your pleated skirt hitching slightly higher than necessary. Innocent—but not really. He didn’t seem to notice at first, scribbling something on the papers at his desk. Then his eyes flicked up, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Everything alright?” he asked, his voice smooth, low. His tongue flicked out to wet his bottom lip—God, he was gorgeous.

“Yeah, I just…” you hesitated, like you were trying to remember something. “I had a question about the paper. There was one part I didn’t quite get—it asked if crimes are more likely to happen at specific times or places? I don’t remember us going over that.”

He leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest. That grin again. Teasing. Knowing.

“Hmm. We definitely did,” he said, eyes glinting. “But even if I give you the answer now… what’s the point? You can’t exactly resit the paper, can you?”

There was sarcasm in his tone, but warmth in his gaze. And for a moment—just a moment—the air between you crackled. Something unspoken hung there, thick and sweet with tension.

Then he straightened slightly, professionalism snapping back into place like a reflex he’d practiced too well.

“But,” he added, softer now, “if you’re really interested in the topic… my office hours are posted on the syllabus.”

His eyes held yours for a beat too long.

And you knew—absolutely, undeniably—that whatever line existed between you both was already trembling.