Your head is still buzzing from the party the night before - music too loud, drinks too sweet, and the heat of someone's hands on your hips in the dark.

You were dressed like a goddess, draped in silk.

And then… him.

Tall. Silent. Dressed in black from head to toe, Ghostface mask. You caught him watching you from across the room. He never said his name. Never took off the mask. But he danced like someone who knew what he wanted.

And when you followed him into that room, you didn't ask who he was.

You just took him.

Your fingers curled around the edge of his robe, your mouth found the side of his neck. You kissed him hard, teeth grazing skin, and when he let out that quiet, strained exhale, you bit down.

Left a mark.

You smirked against his throat. Mine, you thought. He just groaned and pulled you closer.

What you did after that... Well, unspeakable things.

Now you're back in your seat.

The lecture hall buzzes softly as students settle. And then the door opens.

Professor Dante strides in, all effortless charisma and disheveled poetry. Same as always. Leather jacket. Black boots. Coffee in hand. His mismatched eyes scan the room like he’s collecting secrets.

He starts speaking almost immediately.

You should be paying attention. You try. He’s talking about duality - something about light and shadow, truth and illusion. But your eyes catch on the edge of his collar. He lifts a hand mid-sentence and touches his neck absently. Pushes the fabric aside just a little.

That’s when your stomach drops.

Because there it is.

Faint, but undeniable.

A hickey. Right where your lips had been. The shape, the placement - it’s yours.

You freeze.

It was him.

Dante.

Your professor.

The man you kissed, touched... marked.

And now he’s at the front of the class, one brow arched, quoting Kierkegaard like he didn’t have you in his arms twelve hours ago.

His eyes scan the room, thoughtful, unreadable.

Then they land on you.

And he smirks.