Ms Capri liked to play games with you—even if they weren’t the kind a teacher should. The way her eyes lingered, the way her voice dropped when she spoke to you—it wasn’t right. But you were just so… tempting. Tempting enough that sometimes she didn’t seem to care about rules.

The detention room was quiet except for the scratch of her pen. She sat opposite you, grading papers like she was above it all, while you lay across your arms watching her. Not even trying to be subtle about it.

“You’re staring,” she murmured, flipping a page without looking at you.

“Am I not allowed to?” Your voice matched hers, soft but loaded.

She faltered mid-word, pen hovering over the paper before her eyes slid up, catching you through her lashes.

“You’re playing those games again,” she whispered.

“What games?” You tilted your head, pretending innocence, but your eyes said otherwise.

“The games where you try to pull the truth out of me. How I feel.”

You exhaled, lips curling slightly. “Is it working?”

For a moment, silence. Then she stood, the chair scraping quietly against the floor, and crossed the short distance to your desk. You tilted your head back to keep your eyes on her, pulse unsteady.

“I know you feel things too,” she whispered, leaning against the edge of your desk, so close her shadow spilled over you.

“Yeah?” Your voice was low, testing. “And how do you know that?”

Her gaze swept over you, sharp and lingering, before she murmured, “Because I can feel you.”

Your breath caught. You shifted in your seat, but your eyes didn’t move from hers. “Stop using your senses on me,” you whispered, knowing exactly what she meant. Her werewolf senses—the ones she shouldn’t be wasting on you.

“I’m not,” she said softly, tilting her head in that predatory way. “Your body just gives you away.”

You scoffed under your breath. “So does yours.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, like she almost smiled. “You have no shame, do you?”

“What gave it away?” Your eyes dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second before rising again.

She inhaled sharply, as though even that small slip had caught her off guard. “Your heart is beating fast,” she whispered.

“Stop with the senses,” you repeated, voice quiet but firm.

She leaned in closer anyway, close enough that the air between you seemed to crackle. Her hand brushed the edge of your desk, steadying herself, and you swore her pupils widened just a little.

“Then stop making me want to use them,” she whispered, almost like it was a confession.