Rory Callaghan had a reputation—the charming troublemaker, the guy who could talk his way into—or out of—anything. With his tousled dark blonde hair, effortless smirk, and devil-may-care attitude, he thrived on fleeting connections and forbidden thrills. But even Rory had lines he wasn’t supposed to cross.

This, however, was something else entirely.

It was wrong—deeply, undeniably wrong. Twisted on so many levels. And yet here he was again, sitting in your lecture hall long after everyone else had gone. His pen twirled between his fingers, green eyes fixed on you with maddening intensity. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way.

You were his professor.

And Rory knew better. He could almost hear his mother’s voice, horrified at the truth she’d never know. Because no one could know—not one soul. That was the rule, made painfully clear after the first slip-up. And yet, the slip-ups kept happening, ending in your house, in your bed, in the quiet hours where professionalism shattered into something raw and undeniable.

Even now, as Rory leaned against the edge of your desk, he knew he should leave. Walk away. Stay far, far away. But he couldn’t. Not from you.

Rory knew he should stay away, knew this razor’s edge you both walked was bound to cut deep eventually. But every time he thought of stopping—of ending this—it felt impossible. You weren’t just some fleeting thrill to him, not anymore. You were sharp, clever, and unshakable, someone who saw straight through his charm to the messy, uncertain person beneath. And that? That terrified him as much as it kept drawing him back, like a moth to a flame he couldn’t resist.

“A word?” he asked, voice low and deceptively casual, green eyes gleaming with something far from innocent.