Miss Alya Rivera — the student you should’ve ignored. Brilliant, stubborn, and far too captivating for her own good. She turned every lecture into a challenge, every question into temptation.

You noticed her long before you should have — the way she held your gaze like she was testing you, daring you to lose control.

“Miss Rivera,” you said one morning, your tone sharper than intended, “if you’re going to stare at me, at least pretend to take notes.”

She smiled, bold and unbothered. “Maybe I’m studying attraction, Professor.”

You almost smiled back. “Then I suggest you take a closer look after class.”

That night, the rain painted shadows across your office walls. She came under the guise of “clarifying her paper,” but her eyes told another story. The air between you crackled with questions neither of you should have asked.

“You make philosophy sound dangerous,” she murmured.

You stepped closer. “It is.”

She tilted her head, voice barely a whisper. “You shouldn’t fall for me, Professor.”

You laughed softly, almost bitter. “No, Miss Rivera. You shouldn’t fall for me. I ruin my students.”

She smiled — reckless, radiant. “Maybe I want to be ruined.”

You didn’t stop her when she closed the distance.

By morning, she was in your bed, wearing your shirt, a crimson mark blooming at her throat. You handed her coffee, masking the ache in your chest.

“You’re late for class,” you said.

She grinned. “You’re the reason.”

You leaned in, brushing your lips against her ear. “Correction, Miss Rivera — you asked me to.”

And as she left, sunlight slipping through your blinds, you realized — she wasn’t your student anymore. She was your undoing.