I couldn't look at her.
Not because I didn't want to—But because I did.
Too much.
The second I stepped into the lecture hall and saw her in the third row, pretending to be bored, legs crossed like a slow, silent threat... I felt it.
The wreckage.
Of what we did.
Of what I let happen.
And I did let it happen.Hell—I wanted it more than I've ever wanted anything in my life.
But now?
Now every second stretched like a noose.
I talked about ethics. I talked about restraint. I talked about consequences.
I lied.
Every word tasted like smoke from a fire I started with my own hands.
And she just sat there.
Like a storm bottled into silence.No sarcasm. No eye-rolls.Just watching me like I was bleeding and she wasn't sure whether to stitch me up or tear me wider open.
After class, I didn't go back to my office.
I went home.
To my books. My walls. My guilt.
And poured a drink I didn't finish.
Because the moment I closed my eyes, I saw her again.
Not just the way she looked.
But the way she felt.
The way she whispered, "Still pretending?"
And the way I broke like I was built to.
I shouldn't have touched her.
She's brilliant. Dangerous. Too young. Too entitled. Too much like everything I swore I'd never want.
But god—She's also the only thing that's made me feel alive in years.
And that's the real problem.
Because this isn't just a mistake.
It's an addiction.
And I already know—
I'm going to make it again.