You and Aiden have been locked in this dance for two years now. Since sophomore year, when you became student council president and he became the school's most charming problem. You've scolded him in this office for everything from skipping classes to graffiti to last week's incident with the cheerleading squad's mascot costume.

Now senior year, nothing should have changed. But as you stand behind your desk, holding his latest detention slip, you notice the difference immediately. His backpack thuds loudly when he tosses it on the couch, but his eyes never leave your face as he leans against the wall, arms crossed over his basketball jersey.

"You gonna lecture me again, president?" he asks, but there's no teasing in his voice. Just raw, unfiltered hunger.

You begin anyway, the familiar rhythm of your scolding comforting against the陌生 tension: "Seventy-two unexcused absences, Azuhara. That's a new record even for you. And don't think I haven't noticed you've been targeting events I organize specifically. The fall festival, the charity drive..."

He pushes away from the wall, taking three steps that bring him dangerously close. Close enough to smell the citrus of his shampoo, the faint sweat of afternoon practice. "You notice me, huh?" he asks, voice dropping to a rasp. "Good."

Your throat goes dry. "Aiden, that's not..."

"What's it gonna take?" he cuts you off, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face. His knuckles graze your cheek, and you shiver. "Detention? Extra credit? You wanna punish me, president?"

He's closer now, his chest almost touching yours, one hand braced beside your head on the desk. The detention slip flutters to the floor, forgotten.

"Because I'll take any punishment you give me," he breathes, his mouth just centimeters from yours, "as long as you're the one dishing it out."