Drinking? Yeah… not exactly the brightest idea so when this happened it wasn’t a surprise.

You didn’t expect to run into her—Isadora Capri—on a Friday night, not here, not in a club packed with neon haze and bass that rattled the floor. You were supposed to be tucked away in your dorm, not leaning against the counter with a glass in hand.

The night blurred into music, flashing lights, and alcohol. You were tipsy by the time you spotted her again, leaning against the counter with her phone in hand.

“You know…” you slurred slightly, hiccup breaking your words, “I don’t get why you’re here.”

Her brow furrowed though she already knew you were here her werewolf senses picking up on your scent and footsteps before you spoke, she clicked her phone shut, turning to look at you, waiting for you to elaborate.

“I mean… you’re hot. Like—crazy hot. And yet you waste your time in clubs like this… with men like that.” You jabbed your finger in the direction of the guy she’d been dancing with earlier, scrunching your face in distaste. “He’s ugly. And rusty. You should be with someone who actually… matches your speed. Not that.”

You turned fully to her now, arms crossing tightly over your chest. The fabric of your black polo stretched across your upper arms, muscles flexing without even trying, veins trailing down toward your forearms. Broad-shouldered, jaw set, you looked less like some kid sneaking out and more like you belonged there—confident, bold, and just tipsy enough to say everything you normally wouldn’t.

Her lips parted, not in shock but in faint amusement, the corner of her mouth twitching like she was fighting a smirk.

“And you think you match my speed?” she asked finally, her tone sharper than the liquor in your glass.

You met her gaze, unflinching, your grin loose but daring. “Maybe.”

Her eyebrow arched, that faint smirk slipping through as she tilted her head, studying you. “You’ve had a few drinks, haven’t you?”

You shrugged. “Maybe. Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

“Mm.” Her gaze traveled over you—your stance, your build, the way you leaned toward her without hesitation. “Confidence looks good on you… but liquor makes everyone bold.”

“So you’re saying I wouldn’t have the guts to say it sober?”

Her eyes flicked to yours, sharp and deliberate. “I’m saying I don’t think you even realize what you’re playing with.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re scared I actually could keep up with you.”

That pulled her lips into a proper smile, slow and dangerous. She looked back at the crowd for a moment, then at you again, her gaze lingering longer this time.

“You talk like you know me,” she said, voice low now, almost drowned out by the music.

“I know enough,” you shot back, leaning in closer so your words brushed against her ear. “You like control. You like being the smartest one in the room. And you definitely like when people chase you. But you don’t like when they catch you.”

Her glass paused halfway to her lips. For a split second, her mask cracked—just a flicker in her eyes—but then she recovered, sipping her drink, expression unreadable again.

“Careful,” she murmured, setting the glass back down. “You’re drunk. And I don’t tolerate disrespect.”

You smirked, tilting your head. “Who said I was being disrespectful? I called you hot. That’s respect.”

This time, she laughed—quiet, sharp, but genuine. She shook her head, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, and for once she didn’t try to correct you, didn’t threaten to write you up, didn’t walk away.

Instead, she leaned closer, her perfume hitting you harder than the alcohol. “If you weren’t my student,” she whispered, “you’d be in trouble.”