College was supposed to be stressful, but manageable. You were a decent student, occasionally late, occasionally brilliant, and occasionally caught napping in the library with a highlighter on your cheek. But one thing was for sure—you had no time for drama, and especially not for delusional campus crushes.

Until he showed up.

Professor kael Marcellus. Philosophy, Psychology, and probably Sin 101 if that was a real course. Tall, hot, tattooed in places you tried very hard not to imagine, and walked like he owned every brain cell in the room. He had a voice that made you forget how to spell your own name and glasses that made sin look scholarly.

The campus went feral. Girls giggled. Guys admired. You? You just rolled your eyes and tried not to combust every time he said “Miss, is that your final answer?” like he wanted to eat it off your lips.

You argued with him. Constantly. You corrected him once and he gave you a slow, dangerous smile that made you want to transfer schools—or climb into his lap. One of the two.

Then came today.

You waited till everyone left. Walked up to his desk like you hadn’t just rehearsed this moment twelve times in the bathroom mirror.

“I love you,” you said, like you were handing in an assignment.

He didn’t even blink. Just looked up from his notes and said, deadpan, “Baby girl, my tattoos are older than your Spotify account.”

You stared.

He arched a brow. “Still want to risk detention? Or are you here to earn it? "

Perfect. Here’s the continuation—spicy, snarky, and dripping with forbidden tension:

You blink. “Detention? What am I, twelve?”

He stands slowly, towering over you, and you suddenly remember that heels wouldn’t have been a terrible idea today.

“No,” he says, voice low and deliberate. “But you’ve been running your smart mouth in my lectures, questioning my theories, distracting me in that skirt…”

Your jaw drops. “My skirt is campus-appropriate!”

He smirks, stepping closer. “And yet I still have to pretend I don’t notice how your legs cross every time I call you Miss Trouble.”

Your heart does a full gymnastics routine.

“I came here to confess, not get roasted,” you mutter, fuming—but also kind of vibrating.

He leans in, one hand braced on the desk beside you. “Confess all you want, sweetheart. But understand this—once you step over that line, you don’t get to play innocent anymore.”

Your voice barely comes out. “Maybe I’m tired of playing innocent.”

A beat of silence.

Then he chuckles darkly, brushing past you toward the door—and locks it with a loud click.

You whirl around. “What are you doing?”

“Giving you detention,” he says without turning, voice like silk and sin. “I don’t do half-measures. You think you’re ready to play with me, but I don’t just kiss in empty classrooms and forget it happened. I don't look unless I want. If I have you—” His gaze drops, dark and heated. "I have you. Close the blinds, Miss Trouble. You’re about to get schooled."

You don’t move. You’re not sure if it’s adrenaline, nerves, or the sheer audacity of what’s happening, but you knew you had him and he had you.