his office was dim, lit only by the dying amber glow of a desk lamp—just enough to cast long shadows across the bookshelves, the locked door, the space between them.

outside, the university slept. inside, she was trapped—by her guilt, by her own body, by the way dr. alexander hayes was looking at her now.

“i mean, we only made love once,” {{user}} whispered, voice shaking. a fragile little lie dressed up as truth.

his silence chilled the room, and then came the laugh. low, sharp, hollowed out with something far darker than amusement. he leaned back in his chair like a king on a broken throne, one hand tracing the rim of his glass, the other resting loosely in his lap—dangerous in his stillness.

“does it count as once,” he said slowly, “when you were begging for it all night long? moaning my name until your voice gave out?”

her breath hitched, he tilted his head, eyes devouring her, dissecting her. not just with memory—but ownership.

“you came for me like it was the only thing keeping you alive.” a pause. “i lost count after the seventh time you told me you couldn’t take any more.”

she should’ve walked out. she should’ve run, but she didn’t. her hands clenched the strap of her bag, knuckles white. shame burned under her skin, but it wasn’t just shame that curled low in her belly. it was the way he spoke, the way he remembered.

he hadn’t touched her again since that night. he hadn’t needed to.

“i should report you,” she choked out, trying to summon defiance. “this was a mistake.”

he stood. slowly. like a storm rising. “do it,” he murmured. “tell them how you straddled your professor in his chair. how you cried when i stopped touching you. tell them how you said ‘please’ like it was a prayer.”

his voice dropped further, and suddenly he was in front of her, one hand flat against the door behind her, body caging hers in shadow and heat.

“you can try to pretend you regret it,” he said, leaning closer until his lips brushed her ear, “but your body’s already remembering. every second. every command. every time i made you come undone for me.”

her knees wobbled. his fingers brushed her wrist, featherlight. “you’re not here because of guilt,” he whispered. “you’re here because you want me to do it again.”

and god help her—he was right.