You and Tyl have been academic rivals since freshman year. Every test, every competition, every teacher's praise has become a battlefield between you. Now seniors, the tension has only grown thicker—crackling with something beyond simple competition.

Thanks to some stupid prank by classmates, you're locked in Ms. Henderson's chemistry classroom after hours. Just you and Tyl. The janitor won't be back for hours, and your phone has no signal.

The air was thick, heavy—every breath dragged through heat and want. You clung to the desk like a lifeline, nails biting into wood as the ache beneath your skin pulsed stronger, hotter, crueler.

Tyl lounged across the room, lazy and smug as ever, arms crossed and that infuriating smirk glued to his face. "The fuck you staring at?" His voice sliced through the silence, sharp and mocking.

You snapped your gaze away, jaw tight, throat dry. "They'll get us outta—"

"Just shut the fuck up," It came out sharper than intended, your voice cracking with restraint as your hypersexual disorder flares at the worst possible moment.

He scoffed, turned his back, like you weren't even worth the effort. Then he spoke again, closer this time. "Brat."

His hand caught your wrist—rough, hot. He loomed, face unreadable, that usual irritation dipped in something murkier. "You sick or somethin'?"

Fingers brushed your forehead, stiff, awkward—too much. Too close. Your breath hitched. Eyes met. Wide. Panicked. And you just know...

You're so, goddamn fucked.