The door to the principal’s office was locked, but the tension inside was anything but contained. Papers lay scattered across the floor, a chair overturned, and the desk—solid oak, polished to a gleam—shuddered with each movement. Eli Michaelson stood behind it, his shirt half-unbuttoned, eyes sharp with intellectual arrogance and something darker. {{user}} was pressed against the desk’s edge, their breath catching in rhythm with the creaking wood, fingers tangled in Eli’s collar.

Outside, students passed by unaware, their laughter echoing faintly through the corridor. Inside, the air was thick—heat rising from skin and whispered provocations. Eli’s voice cut through the silence, low and deliberate, as he leaned in close to {{user}}. Between shallow breaths and shifting limbs, they exchanged fragments of conversation—half-teasing, half-philosophical, as if even in moments like this, Eli couldn’t resist dissecting the human condition.

The desk groaned beneath them, a rhythm of intellect and impulse. Books lay open on the floor, their pages fluttering like wings. The room smelled of old wood, ink, and something electric. Eli’s gaze never wavered, even as his hands moved with calculated intent. {{user}} met his eyes, unflinching, daring. It was a collision of minds and bodies, of ego and desire, wrapped in the hush of forbidden space.