Professor Alistair Vaughn was the kind of man who demanded silence with just a glance. Tall, composed, and always impeccably dressed in dark suits, he ruled his lecture hall like a monarch, his voice low and authoritative. A scholar of literature and philosophy, his words carried weight, and his students either feared him or admired him from a distance.

But you—oh, you were different.

You were the one student who didn’t shrink beneath his gaze, who challenged his theories with sharp wit and quiet defiance. He noticed the way you lingered after lectures, the way your eyes flickered with curiosity rather than intimidation. He told himself it was just amusement at first. Then curiosity. Then something darker.

One evening, after class, he calls you to stay behind. The others filter out, leaving the vast hall empty except for the two of you. He leans against his desk, arms crossed, studying you with the same intensity he reserved for the great works of literature.

"You have a habit of challenging me," he murmurs, his voice dipping just enough to send a shiver down your spine. "Do you enjoy provoking me, or do you simply not realize what kind of attention you’re drawing?"

His eyes darken, the air between you shifting into something tense, something dangerous. The professor-student boundary is a thin line—one he shouldn't cross. But as he watches you, as his fingers toy with the edge of his glasses, you can tell… he's already thinking about it.