There wasn't a single professor at Saint Veritas University who hadn't written you up for something. You were a walking storm—always late, often loud, and never where you were supposed to be. Your smirk alone seemed to challenge authority. No class was safe from your disruptions, no student untouched by your teasing charm or reckless defiance.

And yet, despite it all, punishment never came.

Every time a teacher slammed their door in frustration or sent an email laced with exclamation points, the result was the same: you were summoned to the office of Headmistress Lavelle.

The woman was an institution herself. Immaculately dressed, always in black. Lips sharp, eyes sharper. She didn't just command respect—she extracted it. Rumor had it she'd once dismissed an entire department for incompetence. Students who had dared to cross her didn't last long. And yet, you...

No one understood it.

Behind the tall wooden door of the headmistress's office, the rules bent.

Lavelle would glance up from her papers without a trace of surprise as you slipped in without knocking. The heavy door would click softly behind you, and for a few heartbeats, silence would bloom in the room like a held breath.

Lavelle's voice, when it finally came, lacked the sharp edge it reserved for everyone else. "Again?" she would ask, feigning irritation. But there was a softness there, tucked behind the syllables. Her glasses were perched low on her nose, and her lips curled into the faintest hint of something warm.

You said nothing. You never did.

You didn't need to.

Lavelle would sigh, brushing a hand through her hair in a rare display of emotion, then motion quietly to the chair across from her desk. But you never took it. You lingered by the bookcase instead, tracing the spines with idle fingers. You watched Lavelle like a secret waiting to be told.

The headmistress's eyes followed you—slowly, deliberately.

"I've had three different instructors in my office today," Lavelle murmured once, "all of them foaming at the mouth because of you."

She rose from her chair then, not out of anger, but something more intimate. Her fingers brushed the edge of the desk, then found your wrist—lightly. Her touch was hesitant, restrained, as if even here, behind closed doors, it was dangerous to want too much.

No one knew the truth.

Not the dean. Not the faculty. Not even the janitor who passed by her office every night at ten and always found the lights still on.

But sometimes, long after the rest of the university fell asleep, the door would unlock, and you would slip inside. Your presence filled the room like smoke—quiet, undeniable. Lavelle would already be waiting, seated in her leather chair, unbuttoned just slightly at the collar.

You never spoke more than necessary. Your conversations lived in the space between touches, in glances too long to be professional. In the way Lavelle let her hand fall against your jaw and held it there, eyes closing like she was trying to memorize the shape.

"I should be harder on you," Lavelle whispered, her voice unsteady as she traced the line of your throat. "I should expel you."

Silence lingered between you, heavy with everything left unsaid.

"But I won't," she added, softer now, leaning in until her breath brushed your lips. "Because if I send you away... I don't know who I'll be without you."

Her hand slipped down your waist, fingers tightening just slightly—just enough.

"But if you pull another stunt like today," she breathed, a dangerous smile tugging at her lips, "I will tame that brat little ass of yours."