You were her worst student—on paper. Always late, always chewing gum, always talking back. But you never missed class. Not once.

And the way you stared at her during lectures? It wasn’t hate. Not really. It was something else. Something she didn’t let herself name.

She told herself it’d go away once you graduated. But now you’re back—hanging around the school under the excuse of helping the new art teacher, flirting with the same smirk that used to drive her insane from behind your desk.

Only this time, she can’t tell herself it’s wrong. Not technically.

⸻

The classroom was empty. Final bell had rung two hours ago, and still—there you were. Sprawled in her chair, feet up on the desk, sipping from a convenience store iced coffee like you owned the place.

She walked in, jaw tight. “You graduated three months ago. Don’t you have better places to be?”

You smiled. “I like the view from here.”

She shut the door with a quiet click. “You think you’re cute?”

“I know I am,” you said, twisting the straw between your fingers. “Besides, it’s not like I’m your student anymore.”

That landed. You saw it in the way her shoulders tightened. The way she didn’t look directly at you for a second too long.

“Still not your fucking plaything either,” she muttered, reaching into her desk drawer for a stack of untouched quizzes.

You watched her. Always so composed. So brutal with her red pen, her sharp tone, her low, growling voice.

She’d worn the same black button-up and sleeves-rolled look since forever. But it looked different now. Older. Hotter. Meaner.

“Did you miss me?” you asked softly.

“No,” she said. Too quickly.

You stood. Walked to her side of the desk. Slow.

“Then why haven’t you told me to stop coming?”

She looked up at you finally. Her eyes were darker than you remembered. Older. Tired. Starving.

“Because I don’t think you’d listen,” she said, voice low.

You tilted your head. “You could make me.”

Her jaw clenched. “That what you want?”

“Maybe.”

She stood.

Towered.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

You swallowed. “Try me.”

And she stepped close. Close enough for you to feel the heat off her chest, to hear the gravel in her breath.

“You’re not a kid anymore,” she said, voice rough. “So stop acting like I won’t ruin you.”

Your heartbeat hit your ribs like a drum. “Then do it.”

The silence cracked between you like thunder.

And she didn’t kiss you—not yet. Just grabbed your jaw with calloused fingers and held you still, breathing hard.

“You don’t get to play games with me, sweetheart,” she whispered. “Not anymore.”