#stran

Steve Harrington had been in your life for so long that you no longer remembered what it felt like before him.

Before the late-night drives with the windows down, Steve’s hand draped casually over the back of your seat. Before movie marathons where you fell asleep halfway through and woke up with your cheek pressed into his shoulder. Before the quiet, wordless understanding that came from surviving too much together in a town that refused to stay normal.

Fourteen years.

Fourteen years of always.

You were there when he broke his arm and pretended it didn’t hurt. You were there when he pretended he didn’t care about Nancy anymore. You were there when the world cracked open and monsters spilled out and Steve decided, somewhere along the way, that protecting people was simply who he was.

And Steve was there for you, too.

For heartbreaks. For family arguments. For the nights when the anxiety wouldn’t let you sleep and he sat on the floor beside your bed, back against the mattress, promising you weren’t alone.

Best friends.

That word followed you everywhere, clung to you like a label you couldn’t peel off. Steve’s best friend. Safe. Untouchable. Not chosen.

And somewhere, quietly, painfully, you fell in love with him.

You never meant to. It just… happened. Slowly. Like water wearing away stone.

You learned to live with it. Learned to tuck it away. Learned to smile when he flirted with other girls, learned to laugh when he asked your advice, learned to swallow the ache when he left your apartment smelling like someone else’s perfume.

You told yourself this was enough.

Until the night it wasn’t.

It was one of those nights where everything felt off-balance from the start.

Too much to drink. Too much laughing. Too many old memories brought up like they were harmless, like they didn’t carry weight. Steve was already sprawled on your couch, shoes kicked off, hair messier than usual, eyes soft in that way that made your chest tighten.

“You ever think about how weird it is,” he said, staring at the ceiling, “that we’re still… us?”

You knew what he meant. Still here. Still together. Still always.

“Yeah,” you replied quietly. “Sometimes.”

He turned his head to look at you. There was something unreadable in his expression, something that made your pulse stutter.

“You’re the only person who never left,” he said. “Not really.”

Your heart ached at the simplicity of it.

The moment stretched. Stretched too far.

You don’t remember who moved first.

Maybe it was you leaning in because the space between you suddenly felt unbearable. Maybe it was him turning fully toward you, eyes flicking to your mouth like he’d been thinking about it longer than he’d ever admit.

The kiss was soft at first. Uncertain. Like both of you were waiting for the other to pull back and say we shouldn’t.

Neither of you did.

It felt like crossing a line you’d both been skirting for years. Familiar and terrifying and intoxicating all at once. Steve’s hand curled into your shirt like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. Your fingers threaded through his hair, muscle memory guiding you like you’d done this a thousand times in another life.

“Hey,” you whispered, breathless, forehead pressed to his. “We don’t have to—”

“I want this,” he said immediately, voice rough. “I want you.”

Those words alone could’ve shattered you.

So you let it happen.

It was tender. Careful. Charged with something neither of you were brave enough to name.

Steve touched you like he already knew you, because he did. Like every laugh, every tear, every shared secret lived just under his skin. And for a moment, you let yourself believe this meant something more.

That maybe he’d finally seen you.

The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a lamp in the corner. Your senses were overloaded, his breath against your neck, the weight of him, the rhythm of his body against yours, the way he whispered your name like it mattered.

And then—

It happened.

Steve murmured something under his breath, voice low, broken, tangled in the moment.

A name.

Not yours.

At least… you thought it wasn’t.

Your body went cold in an instant.

The room seemed to tilt, reality snapping back into place with brutal clarity. Your heart slammed painfully against your ribs as the meaning settled in, heavy and unforgiving.

Of course.

This wasn’t about you. It never was.

You were the convenient constant. The safe place. The person he could reach for when he felt lonely, overwhelmed, drunk on old feelings that didn’t belong to you.

You pulled back so suddenly it startled him.

“Hey— wait, what’s wrong?” Steve asked, concern flooding his face.

But you couldn’t look at him. If you did, you might break completely.

“I can’t,” you said, voice shaking despite your effort to keep it steady. “I can’t do this.”

Confusion flickered across his expression. “Did I do something?”

You laughed softly, bitterly. “You tell me.”

Steve opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly scrambling. “I—I don’t understand.”

“You said her name,” you whispered.

Silence.

The kind that screams.

Steve’s face drained of color. “What? No, I...”

“You don’t have to explain,” you cut in quickly, pain spilling over. “I get it. I should’ve known better.”

You stood, instantly feeling empty without him, hands trembling as you grabbed your sweater. Everything felt too loud, too sharp, too real.

“This was a mistake,” you said, forcing the words past the lump in your throat. “I’m sorry I crossed that line.”

Steve reached for you, panic clear in his eyes. “Wait, please. You’re not a mistake.”

You shook your head, tears finally blurring your vision. “I’ve always been just your friend, Steve. Tonight just… confirmed it.”

You didn’t wait for his response.

You couldn’t.

You avoided him.

At first, it was easy enough. A missed call here. A late reply there. You told yourself you were just busy, just tired, just not ready.

Days passed.

Then weeks.

It became a routine, changing your routes through town, ducking into different aisles at Family Video, lingering longer than necessary anywhere Steve wasn’t. It was easier to pretend you were busy than to face the look on his face when he realized he’d hurt you. Easier to swallow the ache alone than to risk hearing him say what you already believed.

I didn’t mean it like that. You misunderstood. You’re important to me, just not in that way.

You knew how those conversations went. You’d lived through enough almosts to recognize the pattern. The gentle letdowns. The careful phrasing. The way people tried not to break something they never meant to hold in the first place.

So you stayed quiet.

Steve noticed immediately.

Robin noticed ten seconds after that.

She cornered him behind the Family Video counter one afternoon, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “Okay,” she said, voice low, “what did you do?”

Steve blinked at her. “What?”

“You look like someone ran over your favorite pair of shoes and then reversed just to be petty,” she said. “And don’t play dumb. You and her… Something’s wrong.”

He swallowed. Hard.

“She won’t talk to me,” he said finally. “She won’t even look at me.”

Robin’s expression shifted, less teasing, more serious. “Steve.”

“I messed up,” he admitted, voice rough. “I really messed up.”

Across the store, Dustin had been pretending, very poorly, to browse the horror section. He whipped around. “Wait, is this about why she hasn’t been hanging out with us?”

Steve stiffened. “You noticed that too?”

Dustin snorted. “Please. She skipped movie night and free pizza. That’s not normal behavior.”

Robin’s jaw tightened. “What happened?”

Steve opened his mouth. Closed it again. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

“We—” He exhaled sharply. “We crossed a line. And then I said something. Or, well… Mumbled something. And she thinks I said erm—, someone else’s name.”

Robin stared at him. “Did you?”

“No!” Steve said immediately, panic flaring. “God, no. I didn’t. I swear I didn’t.”

“Then why haven’t you told her that?” Dustin asked, brows furrowed.

“I tried,” Steve said miserably. “She won’t answer. She won’t listen.”

Robin softened just a little, but her voice stayed firm. “Steve… she’s been in love with you forever.”

His head snapped up. “What?”

“Don’t act shocked,” Robin said. “It’s painfully obvious. To literally everyone except you.”

Dustin nodded. “Yeah, man. You’re kind of an idiot.”

Steve dragged a hand down his face. “I didn’t know,” he whispered. “I thought… I thought I was protecting her. Keeping things safe.”

Robin sighed. “You don’t protect people by deciding their feelings for them.”

The words hit him like a punch.

Meanwhile, you were unraveling in your own quiet way.

Max noticed first, the way you laughed a little less, the way your eyes always seemed somewhere else. She didn’t push, just sat beside you one afternoon and said, “You don’t have to talk, but you’re not as invisible as you think.”

Mike and El noticed next. He offered soda, long walks, gentle silences. She didn’t mention Steve unless you did… which you didn’t.

And every time his name almost slipped out, your chest tightened painfully. And what hurt even more was the pity in their eyes when they looked at you.

You know they didn’t mean it like that, but in your head they were still kids, they didn’t know any better.

Steve, on the other hand, was unraveling completely.

He couldn’t stop replaying it: how quickly everything changed. One second you were with him, panting his name, your hands gripping his hair, the next you were frozen, retreating. The way your breath hitched. The way your eyes filled with pain like he’d reached into your chest and crushed something delicate and irreplaceable.

The way you walked out like he’d just broken something sacred.

He hadn’t said another name.

He knew that.

He’d mumbled, half-words, broken syllables, a sound caught in his throat because the reality of being with you had hit him all at once. Because suddenly it wasn’t casual, wasn’t safe, wasn’t something he could laugh off the next morning.

It was everything. It meant everything.

And he’d panicked.

Steve Harrington had faced monsters from other dimensions, had gone toe-to-toe with things that should’ve killed him and probably had, if his friends had not interfered, but nothing terrified him quite like the idea that he could lose you, not to death, not to distance, but to his own stupidity.

He wasn’t good with words. Never had been.

And now, every second of silence felt like punishment.

And he deserved it.

But that didn’t stop him from hoping, desperately, foolishly, that someday soon, you’d give him the chance to make it right.

He showed up at your door unannounced.

You knew it was him before you even looked. There was something about the knock, hesitant, uneven, like he’d raised his hand and lowered it again more than once before finally committing. Your heart jumped anyway, sharp and instinctive and unwelcome.

You stayed where you were, snuggled up in one of his hoodies on the couch.

The hallway light buzzed faintly above you. Your keys were still clenched in your hand, metal biting into your palm. On the other side of the door, you could hear him shift his weight, the soft scuff of his sneaker against the welcome mat.

“Hey,” Steve said, voice muffled through the wood. “It’s me.”

As if it could’ve been anyone else.

“I know you probably don’t want to see me,” he went on, words tumbling too fast now. “And I get it, I really do, but, please… can we just talk?”

You pressed your forehead briefly against the door, eyes squeezed shut. If you opened it, if you saw his face, the familiar slope of his shoulders, the way his eyes always softened when they found you, you knew you’d fold. You always did.

So you stayed quiet.

Seconds dragged into minutes. The silence stretched until it felt cruel.

You heard him exhale, long and shaky.

“Okay,” he said softly, resignation creeping in. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll call you later.”

His footsteps retreated down the hallway. The sound of the door closing echoed louder than it should have.

Later that evening, the answering machine clicked on.

You were in the kitchen, pretending to wash a mug that was already clean, when his voice filled the apartment.

“Hey,” he said, quieter now. Stripped bare of bravado. “It’s me. Again. I, uh… please. Just talk to me. I’ll explain. I swear. I know I hurt you, and I hate that I did, but I didn’t say what you think I said. I need you to know that.”

There was a pause. You could almost see him rubbing the back of his neck, staring at the wall like he always did when he was nervous.

“You matter to me,” he added, voice cracking. “More than you know.”

The machine clicked off.

You stood there long after, staring at nothing, heart pounding like it didn’t know where to settle. Eventually, you crossed the room and rewound the tape.

You listened once more.

Then you erased it.

The next day, there was a note slipped under your door. Folded once. Your name written in Steve’s messy handwriting, letters leaning slightly to the right like they always did.

I messed up. Please don’t shut me out. I didn’t say another name. I swear.

You read it until the paper softened between your fingers. Then you folded it back up and tucked it into a drawer you tried not to open too often.

More notes followed over the next few days. Never demanding. Never angry. Just… there.

I’ll wait. I miss you. I’m here when you’re ready.

You didn’t answer any of them.

Because none of it changed the truth as you saw it.

Steve had always cared. He cared deeply, recklessly, with a kind of intensity that made people feel seen and safe. That was who he was. That was why everyone loved him.

But caring wasn’t the same as choosing.

And you were so tired of hoping for something he’d never promised you.

You loved him.

You had loved him quietly, patiently, painfully—for longer than you could remember. Loved him through other girls, through almosts and half-moments that never tipped into more.

And loving him hurt too much.

Too much to open the door. Too much to keep replaying his voice. Too much to survive another almost.

So you left the notes unanswered.

And you let the silence sit between you, heavy, aching, and unresolved.

Steve caught you outside the grocery store just as you were juggling bags and keys, already half-thinking about how quickly you could get home without running into anyone you weren’t ready to see.

Too late.

“Hey,” he said, gentle, like he was afraid the word itself might send you bolting.

Your shoulders tensed immediately. You didn’t look at him at first. “I don’t want to do this, Steve.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I just—please. Don’t run.”

You turned then, arms crossing defensively, grocery bags rustling between you like a flimsy shield. “What do you want?”

The way he flinched at your tone almost made you regret it. Almost.

“I just want to talk,” he said. “I want to explain.”

You shook your head. “You already did. I heard enough.”

“That’s the thing,” he said quietly. “I don’t think you did.”

Your jaw tightened, your heart cracking. “I don’t want to reopen this.”

He hesitated, clearly fighting himself, then nodded. “Okay.”

The acceptance caught you off guard.

“I won’t push,” he said. “I promise.” He took a step back, giving you space. “I just want you to know… that night wasn’t about anyone else. And I’ll live with it if you never believe me. I just needed you to know I never meant to hurt you.”

You swallowed hard.

Steve looked at you one last time, eyes heavy with things he wasn’t saying. “Take care of yourself,” he added softly.

Then he walked away.

You stood there longer than necessary, eyes tracing his every move, his words echoing louder than you wanted them to.

That night wasn’t about anyone else.

You tried to shake it off. Told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was too late.

But your mind betrayed you.

Because when you replayed that moment, really replayed it, you realized something you hadn’t let yourself consider before. The sound he’d made hadn’t been clear. Hadn’t been sharp enough to be a name. It had been breathless. Broken. Almost cut off.

Like a thought interrupted.

Your mind just filled it in for you.

The certainty you’d clung to began to crack.

Steve didn’t try to corner you again.

Instead, he showed up quietly, invisible.

A cup of coffee left outside your door one morning. Cold by the time you found it. Exactly how you liked it.

A grocery bag on your porch when you got home late one evening. Soup. Bread. Things you bought when you were too tired to take care of yourself properly. Your favorite cookies, the Dutch speculaas ones your oma used to make when she was visiting.

And even though these gestures cracked open your heart even more, there was still no pressure.

No expectations.

Just presence.

Days passed like that.

The ache didn’t disappear, it dulled, settling into something quieter, something you could carry without it knocking the breath out of you every morning. You learned how to exist again. Not healed. Just… functioning.

And then one night, without fully deciding to, you opened the door when you heard the familiar creaking of your front porch.

Steve stood there like he hadn’t let himself believe this moment would ever come.

“Hey,” he said, careful.

“Hey,” you replied.

You stepped aside, wordlessly letting him in.

He didn’t move closer. Didn’t touch you. Just stood in the middle of the room with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders tight, like he was bracing for impact.

“I’ve been thinking,” you said slowly. Your voice sounded steadier than you felt. “About that night.”

His breath hitched. “Yeah?”

“A lot,” you added. “And I don’t think… I don’t think you said her name.”

He closed his eyes for a brief second, like relief physically hit him.

“I didn’t,” he said quietly. “I swear. I was trying to say something else. I panicked and it came out wrong.”

You nodded once. “I know.”

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t sharp either. It sat between you, heavy with everything neither of you quite knew how to touch yet.

“But knowing that,” you continued, shaking your head, forcing yourself to keep going, “doesn’t undo how it felt.”

Steve’s head dipped immediately, seeking eye contact. “I know.”

“You still hurt me,” you said, more firmly now. “I gave you the most vulnerable part of myself and still walked away feeling small. Replaceable. Like I’d finally been stupid enough to hope for something that was never mine.”

“I know,” he repeated, voice rough. He didn’t argue. Didn’t soften it. “I know I did that.”

You swallowed, looking at his face, the way how his face fell, how sad he looked. “I know the grown-up thing would’ve been to talk it through—to clear up the confusion. But we didn’t. And even though I feel guilty about that, I still need some time.”

“I don’t expect you to be ready,” he said quietly, his hand trembling. “I don’t expect anything.”

You studied him, the familiar slope of his shoulders, the way he looked older somehow, worn thin in a way you hadn’t seen before.

“I’m willing to try,” you said finally. “But you really have to work for this.”

His eyes lifted to yours, earnest and steady. “I will. However long it takes.”

You nodded once, a small smile already forming. “Okay.”

He seemed to hesitate then, like something was pressing against his ribs, something he’d been holding back.

And then—

“I love you.”

Steve looked startled by his own admission.

The words landed… hard, wrong? Not gentle, not careful. They hit you straight in the chest, stealing the air from your lungs.

“What?” you breathed.

Steve froze, clearly realizing how hard they’d landed, but he didn’t take them back.

“I didn’t plan to say it like that,” he admitted, his hand raking through his hair. “Or even tonight. But you deserve the truth, even if it scares you.”

You stared at him, heart pounding. “Steve—”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I know it doesn’t fix anything. I know it doesn’t erase the hurt. And I know you don’t owe me anything just because I feel this way.”

He swallowed hard.

“But these last few weeks? They were the worst weeks of my life.”

You blinked, a startled laugh caught in your throat. “You’ve fought monsters in another dimension.”

He nodded. “Yeah. And I’d do it again without thinking.” His voice cracked despite himself. “But thinking I lost you because I was too scared to say what I’ve felt for years? That was worse.”

The room felt suddenly too small.

“I wasn’t ready for that,” you admitted, voice trembling.

“I know,” he said softly. “I’m not asking you to say it back. I just couldn’t keep pretending anymore.”

Your chest ached, not with fear this time, but with something fragile and overwhelming.

You crossed the space between you before you could think better of it.

The kiss was tentative. Careful. A question more than a promise.

Steve went still for half a second, like he was afraid this was another almost, before his hands came up to your waist, gentle, grounding, like he was anchoring himself to something real.

The kiss deepened just slightly.

Not desperate.

Relieved.

When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his, breath warm between you, both of you a little unsteady.

“I love you, too.” You whispered against his lips, feeling him still once more. “But… This doesn’t mean everything’s fixed.”

“I know,” he said immediately, his hands squeezing your sides gently.

“But it means I’m not walking away,” you added.

His smile was small. Real. “That’s all I was hoping for.”

“I love you,” he murmured.

You let yourself smile once more, leaning into him. “Ditto.”

. . .

The dorm room had the curtains pulled and the blanket draped over both of them like they were hiding from the world on purpose.

Which, technically, they were.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor with a large blanket pooled over her shoulders, the bong set carefully between her and Nancy like it was an important centerpiece. The little bag of beautiful Purple Palm Tree Delight sat off to the side with the rest of her “supplies,” and the air was already thick and warm in that unmistakable way.

Nancy sat opposite her, knees pulled up, edge of the blanket draped down her back.

She watched Y/N take a hit and exhaled through her nose, unimpressed.

“I cannot believe,” Nancy said, voice flat, “that you talked me into skipping fifth period.”

Y/N blinked slowly, very calm, very pleased with herself. “I didn’t talk you into it.”

Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, you did.”

Y/N shrugged like it was obvious. “You were already emotionally exhausted and you hate that class.”

“I hate my calculus class,” Nancy corrected, “but I love my GPA.”

Y/N leaned back slightly, letting the blanket slide a little down her back more. “Then consider this an investment in your mental health.”

Nancy stared at her. “That’s not how school works.”

Y/N smiled and nudged the bong and lighter a little closer to Nancy. “You’re holding it like it’s going to bite you.”

Nancy muttered, “It does bite me,” but she took it anyway with the careful seriousness of someone handling contraband.

Y/N watched her with open satisfaction. “I prefer you high,” she announced.

Nancy blinked. “Excuse me.”

“You heard me, Wheeler,” Y/N repeated. “You’re nicer.”

Nancy scoffed. “I’m always nice.”

Y/N gave her a look.

Nancy rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine. I’m… tolerable.”

Y/N smiled sweetly. “Exactly. When you drink you get do your ‘bullshit, bullshit’ babbles and you get really sad.”

Nancy’s face tightened. “I do not get sad.”

Y/N lifted her eyebrows.

Nancy sighed. “I get… reflective.”

“And then you whine,” Y/N said.

“I do not whine,” Nancy snapped.

“And act like the whole world is against you,” Y/N’s smile widened. “Not to mention, you cried at that movie we saw a couple months back.” 

Nancy’s face went instantly red. “You cried too!”

“I lived Wil Wheaton’s life in that movie,” she said, grabbing the bong again. “Parents thought writing was a waste of time.”

Nancy pointed at her. “First of all, his name was Gordie—“

“I don’t care.” Y/N took a hit and exhaled slowly, eyes half-lidded. “All I know is you’re my River Phoenix to my Wil Wheaton.”

Nancy made a strangled sound. “Oh my god, River’s name was Chris. And Wil was—“

“I’m trying to have a sentimental moment, dammit.”

Nancy stared at her for a beat, still pink in the cheeks, then sighed like she was being forced into emotional vulnerability at gunpoint.

“Fine,” she muttered. “Go ahead. Sentimentalize.”

Y/N’s eyes lit up. “Thank you.”

Nancy rolled her eyes, but her voice softened anyway. “You’re still wrong. It’s Gordie and Chris.”

Y/N waved a hand dismissively, blanket sliding down her shoulder. “Details. Not important.”

“They’re literally the only important part,” Nancy said, but she was smiling now, small, reluctant.

Y/N leaned closer, lowering her voice like it was some sacred confession. “You get it, though.”

Nancy blinked. “Get what?”

“The whole thing,” Y/N said, gesturing vaguely with the bong like it was a microphone. “Being young and…not really feeling safe at home. Feeling like nobody believes in you until you leave. Having your one person.”

Nancy’s expression shifted, the teasing fading into something more careful. “Y/N…”

Y/N shrugged like she didn’t care, but her eyes were too bright for it. “I’m just saying. You’re my one person.”

Nancy’s mouth opened, then closed again like she was offended by the softness trying to happen.

“You’re high,” Nancy said finally.

Y/N nodded. “Yes.”

“And dramatic.”

“Also yes.”

Nancy huffed, then reached under the blanket and nudged Y/N’s knee with hers. “Fine. If we’re doing this…”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “We are doing this?”

Nancy looked away, voice quieter. “You can be my… whatever. Too. I guess.”

Y/N grinned. “Your Wil Wheaton.”

Nancy groaned. “No. Absolutely not. Never say that again.”

Y/N laughed. “Okay, okay…your Gordie.”

Nancy pointed at her, satisfied. “That’s better.”

Y/N’s smile softened. “So we’re agreed.”

Nancy sighed like she hated agreements. “We’re agreed.”

Nancy took another hit just to avoid the argument and handed it back, eyes slightly watery. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Y/N said, taking it, “I’m your best friend.”

Nancy muttered, “Against my will.”

Y/N leaned her head back against the bedframe behind them, letting the smoke curl up under the blanket. Her voice went dreamy. “This is so cozy.”

Nancy stared at her. “We are literally hotboxing our dorm room.”

Y/N nodded. “Cozy.”

Nancy opened her mouth, then closed it, because she didn’t have the energy to fight semantics with someone who was already floating.

They sat like that for a while, passing the bong back and forth, giggling quietly when something stupid became suddenly profound, taking turns saying half-finished thoughts like they were philosophy.

At one point Nancy started ranting about how the student newspaper budget was “a personal insult,” and Y/N listened with the kind of intense seriousness that only happened when she was high.

“You should do an exposé,” Y/N whispered.

Nancy blinked at her. “On the budget?”

“On the whole system,” Y/N corrected, nodding like she’d cracked the code of society. “The man is oppressing you.”

Nancy stared at her for three seconds, then snorted. “You are so annoying.”

Y/N grinned. “I’m right.”

Nancy leaned back and murmured, “Maybe.”

Y/N laughed, then suddenly sat upright like she’d been struck by lightning.

Nancy squinted. “Why are you moving like that?”

Y/N poked her head out of the blanket and blinked at the clock on the wall.

Her eyes widened.

“Oh my God.”

Nancy’s face tightened. “What?”

“We have an assembly,” Y/N whispered urgently.

Nancy stared. “We do not.”

Y/N pointed at the clock like it was a courtroom exhibit. “After our last period that we…didn’t go to.”

Nancy’s mouth fell open slightly. “Oh my God.”

Y/N was already scrambling. She threw the blanket off like it was on fire, smoke releasing into the room as she reached into her drawer, and whipped out a bottle of eye drops like a professional.

Nancy lurched to her feet, suddenly sober in the way panic always did that. “This is your fault.”

Y/N tilted her head while squeezing drops into her eyes. “How?”

“You’re the one who said ‘mental health investment,’” Nancy snapped, grabbing her perfume off her desk.

Y/N blinked rapidly, trying to clear the redness. “It is mental health.”

Nancy sprayed perfume into the air and walked through it aggressively like that would erase all evidence. “If we get caught, I’m blaming you.”

Y/N capped the eye drops and handed them to Nancy. “Here. Fix your eyeballs.”

Nancy took them, grumbling. “My eyeballs are fine.”

She put the drops in anyway.

Y/N rushed to crack the window, fanning the air with her notebook. Nancy grabbed a sweatshirt and started shaking it out like she was trying to create a breeze strong enough to remove guilt from the room.

“This is why I prefer you high,” Y/N said, fanning faster. “You get productive.”

Nancy shot her a look. “I hate you.”

Y/N grinned. “No you don’t.”

Nancy sprayed perfume again. “If anyone asks, we were cleaning.”

Y/N nodded solemnly. “We were cleaning our…vibes.”

Nancy stared at her. “Stop talking.”

Y/N grabbed her bag, still blinking rapidly. “Okay, mom.”

Nancy shoved her notebook into her tote, then paused and looked at Y/N over the top of it. “If we walk into that assembly smelling like a hippie’s dream, I’m ending our friendship.”

Y/N pointed at the perfume cloud. “That’s why you’re here.”

Nancy rolled her eyes and grabbed Y/N’s sleeve. “Come on. Move. Before they lock the doors.”

Y/N stumbled toward the door with her, laughing under her breath as Nancy dragged her down the hall like a frustrated chaperone.

And despite the panic, despite the eye drops and perfume and the fact they were absolutely going to walk in late, Y/N couldn’t help thinking:

This was the best kind of trouble.

. . . 

Nancy and Y/N made it out of the dorm looking almost normal.

Almost.

Their eyes were a little too shiny, their smiles a little too easy, and their steps had that tiny delay to them, like their brains were politely waiting for the rest of their bodies to catch up.

They walked fast anyway, cutting across campus with the kind of urgency that only came from two people who knew they were late and were trying not to act like it.

Nancy kept her tote bag clutched tight to her side like it contained state secrets. Y/N kept blinking like her eyelashes were heavy.

“Okay,” Nancy muttered, glancing ahead at the auditorium building. “We can still do this.”

Y/N nodded solemnly. “We can do this.”

Nancy shot her a look. “Do not say it like you’re giving a speech.”

“I’m not,” Y/N said, offended. “I’m affirming.”

Nancy sighed. “You’re high.”

“I’m focused,” Y/N corrected.

Nancy’s mouth tightened. “You were focused when you called perfume ‘air makeup’ thirty seconds ago.”

“That was accurate,” Y/N insisted. “Because it covers… the air’s face.”

Nancy stared forward. “Stop talking. You’re going to get us caught.”

Y/N leaned closer as they walked, voice dropping conspiratorially. “What if the auditorium has like…smell detectors?”

Nancy’s head snapped toward her. “It doesn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because smell detectors aren’t a thing,” Nancy hissed.

Y/N considered that deeply, then nodded like Nancy had just explained a scientific theorem. “Okay. But what if someone can smell fear?”

Nancy’s expression went flat. “They can. And you smell like it.”

Y/N gasped. “Rude.”

Nancy pointed a finger at her without slowing down. “If you say one more sentence that starts with ‘what if,’ I’m leaving you.”

Y/N’s eyes widened, then she whispered, very seriously, “What if I leave you?”

Nancy blinked. “You can’t. You don’t know directions.”

Y/N stopped walking for half a second just to look offended. ‘Fuck, I hate when she’s right.’

Nancy grabbed her sleeve and dragged her forward again.

“Come on,” Nancy muttered. “We’re going to walk in and act like we belong.”

“We do belong,” Y/N said, nodding. “We pay tuition.”

Nancy whispered through her teeth, “Just shush.”

They reached the doors to the main auditorium and slowed, both of them instinctively trying to smooth themselves down. Nancy adjusted her hair. Y/N tugged her sweater into place. Nancy checked her eyes in a compact mirror.

Y/N peered at the heavy doors and whispered, “These doors are intimidating.”

Nancy’s brows knit. “They’re doors.”

“What if the door swing at me really fast and knocks me out?” Y/N insisted.

Nancy exhaled slowly. “You’re not allowed to speak once we go in.”

Y/N nodded. “Okay.”

They walked inside.

The sound hit them first, hundreds of voices, chairs shifting, the low roar of an entire student body being forced into one room. The main auditorium was filling quickly, rows of seats packed, aisles crowded with late arrivals and staff.

A banner hung near the stage: END-OF-YEAR PREPARATION ASSEMBLY in bold institutional lettering that looked like it hated joy.

Nancy leaned toward Y/N and whispered, “This is my nightmare.”

Y/N whispered back, “This is my nightmare too.”

Nancy blinked. “That was normal. I’m proud of you.”

Y/N smiled, then immediately ruined it by whispering, “What if everyone’s brains sync up in here.”

Nancy’s face dropped. “Oh my God.”

“I’m just saying,” Y/N murmured, “this many people in one room? That’s a lot of thoughts.”

Nancy grabbed her elbow. “Stop. You’re going to spiral.”

They moved down the side aisle, and that’s when Nancy stiffened.

Because the stage wasn’t empty.

Faculty were already in their seats at the front, some on the stage itself, some in a reserved section just below it. There was a long table set up on stage with name placards, water pitchers, stacks of papers, and microphones that weren’t turned on yet.

And there, sitting at the table with the School of Arts & Interdisciplinary Studies placard near him, was Henry.

Not in lecture mode.

In official mode.

Suit jacket on. Tie neat. Posture straight. His hair combed back like he’d never once been touched by chaos. He looked like he belonged on a stage in front of an audience, which made Y/N’s stomach dip with a mix of pride, nerves, and the sudden realization of how exposed this was.

Because being on campus with him was one thing.

Being on stage with him was another.

And of course her brain chose right now—stoned, sleep-deprived, and emotionally fragile—to decide Henry Creel in a tie was the most offensive thing she’d ever seen.

It wasn’t even fair.

Even from across the auditorium, she could see the disciplined line of his throat above his collar. Something about that pristine appearance-so controlled, so proper-made her want to mess it up.

Y/N’s mouth went dry.

Not from nerves.

From a thought she did not ask for.

Nancy’s hand tightened around Y/N’s elbow. “Oh, great,” she muttered. “Your favorite authority figure.”

Y/N didn’t answer because if she opened her mouth she might say something unforgivable like he looks so hot I could pass away. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Her pulse thumped in her throat.

Nancy’s gaze flicked from Henry to the table to the sea of students. “You know you’re going to have to sit up there,” she whispered.

“I know,” Y/N whispered back, swallowing hard.

Her eyes kept drifting back to Henry's hands on the table-long fingers, steady, the cuff of his shirt showing just enough to make her remember how those same hands looked when they would explore every inch of her body.

She blinked fast, trying to clear it like eye drops could fix thoughts.

Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “And you are currently….”

Y/N blinked slowly. “I am currently.”

Nancy exhaled, pained. “You’re stoned.”

Y/N nodded once. “Yes.”

And apparently horny, her brain added, because it hated her.

Nancy made a sound that was half prayer, half threat. “Okay. We can still do this.”

Y/N stared at Henry's profile-the calm professionalism that made him look like he'd never once been touched by chaos. It made everything feel too real, too dangerous. It also made her remember how he looked when he stopped being professional, which was absolutely not helping right now.

Then she leaned toward Nancy and whispered, very seriously, “What if I wave at him and my arm falls off?”

Nancy’s face twisted. “Why would your arm fall off?”

“Because,” Y/N whispered, “this is stressful.”

Also because he looks like a man who could ruin her life in two languages, her brain supplied.

Nancy grabbed her shoulders gently, firmly. “Listen to me. You are going to walk up there, sit down, and take notes. You will not fall apart. You will not wave aggressively. You will not act like a stoned girl.”

Y/N nodded, eyes wide. “Okay.”

“And,” Nancy added, eyes narrowing, “you will not stare at him like you’re about to climb him.”

Y/N blinked. “Nancy.”

Nancy’s voice dropped. “I’m serious.”

Y/N whispered, “I’m not going to climb him.”

Nancy stared at her. “You’re thinking it.”

Y/N frowned. “I’m not thinking it.”

Nancy sighed. “You’re thinking it.”

Y/N leaned closer and whispered, “I’m thinking… about the concept of climbing. Like hiking.”

What she was actually thinking was: If he adjusts that tie once, I'm going to need medical attention. Or maybe a cold shower. Or an exorcism. The thought of his fingers at his throat, the casual adjustment of that perfect knot, was somehow more obscene than anything she'd ever seen.

Nancy closed her eyes briefly like she was asking the universe for strength.

They reached the steps that led up to the stage.

A staff member at the side entrance checked a list and waved Y/N forward. “Departmental assistant?”

Y/N swallowed. “Yes.”

The staff member handed her a folder and a small stack of handouts with the School of Arts & Interdisciplinary Studies header. “These go out after the assembly. Sit at the table with your faculty marshal.”

Y/N nodded, gripping the folder like it was a life raft.

Nancy stopped at the bottom of the steps, eyes on her.

“You’ve got this,” Nancy whispered.

Y/N looked back down at her. “Do I?”

Nancy’s mouth tightened. “Yes. And if you don’t, just remember: you’re smarter than half this room.”

That actually helped.

Y/N breathed in, steadied herself, and climbed the steps.

Henry looked up the moment she reached the table. His expression stayed controlled, of course it did, but his eyes softened when they landed on her, like he was relieved she’d made it.

Then his gaze flicked briefly to her face, assessing, checking if she was okay.

Y/N felt the look like a hand. She had to fight the ridiculous urge to melt into it right there in front of everyone.

She sat beside him, placing the folder and handouts neatly in front of her like she wasn’t vibrating internally.

Henry leaned a fraction closer, voice low enough that the microphones wouldn’t pick it up even if they were on.

“You’re here,” he murmured.

Y/N nodded. “I’m here.”

His cologne was faint up close, clean, restrained, and it messed with her head immediately. Her brain tried to replace the smell of an auditorium with the smell of his apartment. The memory hit so hard she almost lost the ability to speak like a normal person.

His eyes narrowed slightly, and his voice went quieter. “Are you all right?”

Y/N blinked at him very earnestly and whispered, “I am so normal right now.”

Henry held her gaze for a beat, then looked down at her eyes, too glossy, too soft, and the corner of his mouth almost moved.

Almost.

He didn’t smile.

He simply said, with calm precision, “You’re late.”

Y/N whispered back, “Time is a social construct.”

Henry’s hand paused over his papers.

He glanced at her again, and there was a flicker in his eyes, something like disbelief mixed with fondness.

It was that fondness that made her entire body flush with heat. She didn't just want to press her mouth to his cheek; she wanted to drag her teeth down his throat, to bite the knot of his tie and pull him closer. She wanted to crawl under this table and press her face against the hard line of his thigh. She wanted to behave, but her body was rewriting the definition of the word with every throb between her legs.

Then he leaned even closer and said, very quietly, “Stay still.”

Y/N nodded so seriously it was almost painful. “Okay.”

She sat up straighter, hands folded over her folder, pen ready. She faced forward like she was about to defend a dissertation.

Her body, unfortunately, was still very aware of his knee near hers, his arm close to her elbow, the way he looked so composed while she felt like a mess of nerves and want and leftover smoke.

The auditorium lights dimmed slightly.

A dean approached the microphone.

The assembly was about to begin.

Y/N stared out at the sea of faces, but she wasn't really seeing them. She felt the risk land in her chest like a hot stone, but beneath it was a deeper, more dangerous thrill. This was public. This was visible. And the thought of getting caught, of someone seeing the way he made her feel, made her slick with a heat that had nothing to do with the stage lights.

Her heart raced.

And of course her brain chose that exact moment to think: If he touches my thigh under this table, I’m going to black out.

She inhaled slowly, a useless attempt at control. Focus. Notes. Academic bullshit.

Normal. But her body was a traitor, already remembering every single sexual encounter ever with Henry. 

But Henry’s knee shifted slightly under the table, brushing hers once, small, grounding, electric: I’m here. I know what you’re thinking. 

The jolt didn't just go through her; it settled deep and low, a pulse of pure need that made her thighs clench.

Y/N gripped her pen until her fingers ached, her knuckles white. She forced her eyes forward, trying to look composed, trying to look like anything other than a girl who was seconds away from spontaneously combusting from sheer, unadulterated lust.

And despite everything-the weed amplifying every sensation, the anxiety of being exposed, the audience of hundreds, and the fact that Henry Creel looked like sin in a suit-she managed to sit there and behave... even if her thoughts were begging to have him. 

Henry leaned in just enough to whisper, his voice a low, steady rumble that cut through the fog in her head. "Just breathe. Look at me."

She turned her head, and his calm, steady gaze met hers. He wasn't judging her; he was grounding her. In his eyes, there was no assembly, no audience, no risk. There was just him. The frantic energy in her chest began to subside, replaced by a slow, creeping warmth. The anxiety didn't vanish, but it morphed, melting into a lazy, heavy arousal that settled low in her belly. The danger was still there, but now it felt thrilling, a current buzzing under her skin.

For fifteen minutes, she behaved. She listened to the dean drone on about academic integrity. She tapped her pen. She nodded at the appropriate moments. But she was bored. And the high, now coupled with a potent dose of desire, made her reckless.

Her hand, which had been resting innocently on her own knee, slid over to his. It rested there for a moment, a simple point of contact. Then, with agonizing slowness, it began to creep up his thigh, her fingers tracing the seam of his trousers.

She felt him tense instantly. He didn't move, didn't look at her, but his entire body went rigid. She reached the apex of his thigh, her fingers brushing against the growing bulge in his pants. 

She teased him, her touch light and maddening, tracing the outline of him through the fabric.

His hand shot out from under the table, his fingers wrapping around her wrist in a firm, warning grip. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head. His eyes were fixed forward, but the message was clear: Stop. Not here.

But the weed and the power had made her bold. She didn't pull away. Instead, she waited, her hand still. 

A beat passed. Then another. 

His grip on her wrist loosened, but he didn't let go. He simply moved her hand, placing it directly over his now-hard cock, pressing her palm against him. It was a surrender. A silent, desperate permission.

That was all she needed.

Her fingers worked with a newfound confidence, quickly and quietly undoing his button and lowering his zipper. He let out a barely audible hiss of breath. She reached inside, freeing him, his hot, heavy length fitting perfectly in her cool hand. She began to stroke him, her movements slow and deliberate at first, her thumb smearing the bead of pre-cum over his head.

He was utterly still, his jaw clenched so tightly she was surprised it didn't crack. His hand came back to the table, gripping the edge so hard his knuckles were white. He stared straight ahead at the dean, a statue of forced composure, while under the table, she was slowly, methodically taking him apart.

Her movements became a slow, torturous rhythm. Each deliberate glide of her fist up his shaft was a promise of the pleasure to come, each twist of her wrist a new form of exquisite agony. Henry was a statue carved from ice, but beneath the surface, he was a raging volcano. 

He could feel the heat pooling in his groin, the tell-tale tightening that signaled his impending undoing.

His colleagues were mere feet away, droning on about student engagement. He could hear the head of the English department, Dr. Albright, laughing at some inane joke. 

The sounds were a distorted, underwater soundtrack to the silent, frantic war he was waging with his own body. He had to stop her. It was too much. He was going to lose control, to make a sound, to disgrace himself in front of everyone.

His hand moved under the table, his intention clear: to pull her hand away, to end this exquisite torture. His fingers closed around her wrist just as she tightened her grip, her thumb swiping over his sensitive head in a way that made his vision blur.

He was on the absolute edge.

Just as he was about to forcibly remove her hand, she leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear. Her voice was a ghost of a sound, a warm, wicked puff of air that sent a shiver down his spine.

"I could stop right now," she whispered, her hand stilling for a heart-stopping second. "Or...you could cum down my throat."

Henry’s world tilted on its axis. The choice wasn't a choice at all. It was a surrender. He didn't speak, couldn't speak. He just gave a single, sharp, almost imperceptible nod. It was the capitulation of a drowning man.

A triumphant, satisfied smirk played on her lips. She ducked under the long tablecloth, disappearing from view. The world above the table faded into meaningless noise. All that existed was the dark, cramped space under the table, the scent of his arousal, and the sight of him, hard and waiting for her.

She leaned in, her mouth watering, and took him into her mouth. His hand moved down into her hair and she was just getting settled, her lips wrapping around his thick head, her tongue preparing to taste him—

A piercing, high-pitched shriek of microphone feedback ripped through the auditorium, loud and violent. It was a physical assault on the senses.

Y/N jumped as if she’d been shocked, her head flying up and cracking hard against the underside of the table. She let out a sharp, pained yelp as she scrambled to sit back up, her heart hammering against her ribs, the sudden shift from illicit pleasure to shocking pain whiplash-inducing.

Henry, who had been teetering on the brink of oblivion, was jolted back to reality so violently it was almost painful. 

He flinched, his eyes wide with panic as he looked around. Dr. Albright was glancing his way, a concerned look on her face. 

Henry just gave a tight, pained smile, rubbing his ear as if the feedback had bothered him, all while his cock, still hard and desperate, throbbed with a denied, agonizing release under the table. The assembly continued, but for both of them, the world had just been blown apart.

. . . 

When the dean finally wrapped up, the whole auditorium shifted at once, chairs scraping, bodies rising, the sound of hundreds of students all moving as if they’d been released from a spell.

Y/N stood automatically with everyone else, still a little foggy around the edges. The lights felt too bright. The air felt too loud. Her brain was slow to catch up to what her body was doing.

She blinked, looked around, trying to find Nancy in the sea of heads.

Nancy.

…Where was Nancy?

She had completely forgotten about the man sitting beside her, the hard length in her hand, the near-disaster. She was just a student in a crowd, looking for her best friend. 

And then Henry was beside her.

Not in front of her. Not obvious.

Just suddenly there, close enough that she felt him before she saw him, his voice low enough to be swallowed by the crowd noise.

“Y/N,” he murmured. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”

She turned, disoriented, and saw his expression.

Not professor-neutral.

Not gentle.

Something darker. Controlled. Tight.

Y/N’s mouth parted, half ready to joke, half ready to ask what he meant until his hand closed around her arm.

Not bruising. Not violent.

Firm.

A grip that said you’re coming with me.

Before she could protest, Henry guided her through the press of bodies and out of the aisle, moving fast, using the chaos of the crowd as cover. They slipped out a side door, then another, the noise muffling behind them.

Cold air hit Y/N’s face the second they stepped outside.

It sobered her a little.

Not enough.

Henry didn’t stop walking until they were out of the flow of students and around the side of the building, where the wall was brick and the campus foot traffic thinned.

He didn't give her a chance to catch her breath. He spun her around, backing her up until her shoulders hit the rough brick of the building with a soft thud. He caged her in, one hand on the wall beside her head, the other still gripping her arm. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating off him, could smell his cologne mingled with the scent of his raw, unspent arousal.

And she could feel it, too. The hard, thick line of his cock was straining against the fabric of his trousers, pressing insistently against her hip. It was a tangible, undeniable proof of his desire.

“Are you out of your mind?” he said quietly.

Y/N blinked up at him. She should’ve felt embarrassed. She should’ve felt guilty.

Instead she felt that familiar flicker of defiance…and of course, arousal.

“It was an assembly,” she said, as if that explained anything.

Henry’s hand stayed on her arm, his fingers tense. “That,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “was the most reckless thing you’ve ever done.”

Y/N’s lips parted in a slow, dazed smile. “You didn’t seem to hate it.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed.

He leaned in slightly, and his voice dropped even lower. “You don’t get to confuse my lack of immediate reaction with approval.”

Y/N tilted her head, eyes bright and unfocused in that stoned way that made her brave.

“But you’re still—” she started, then stopped, her gaze dipping briefly before she looked back up at his face with a teasing softness. “You’re still not exactly… angry.”

Henry’s jaw flexed. He stepped closer, and Y/N could feel the tension in him, the way his control was barely holding.

“Don’t,” he warned.

Y/N swallowed, her pulse picking up. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t stand there and pretend you didn’t know exactly what you were doing,” Henry said. “All the little stunts. The teasing. The games I’ve been letting you get away with.” His eyes sharpened. “That was the worst possible place to take it.”

Y/N, the fog in her brain finally starting to lift, looked up at him. A slow, defiant smirk touched her lips. She shifted her hips, pressing herself more firmly against his straining erection. "You didn't seem to have a problem with it a few minutes ago," she whispered back, her voice husky. "In fact, you still don't."

A muscle twitched in his jaw. His eyes flickered down to her mouth, and for a second, she thought he was going to kiss her, to devour her right there against the wall. Instead, he pushed off the wall, stepping back just enough to create a sliver of space between them.

He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up, a clear sign of his fraying control.

He looked her up and down, his gaze a physical caress that left her skin tingling. "Do you have plans for the rest of the day?" he asked, his voice suddenly calm, which was far more terrifying than his anger.

She shook her head, unable to speak.

"Good," he said, his tone flat and final.

"Cancel them. Whatever you were going to do, forget it. Because you and I are going back to my apartment. And I am going to fuck your brains out."

He didn't wait for a reply. He grabbed her hand again, his grip like a vise, and began pulling her towards the faculty parking lot. His long legs ate up the distance, and she had to practically run to keep up. Her heart was pounding in her chest, a frantic, excited rhythm.

This wasn't a game anymore. This wasn't teasing. This was a promise of retribution, of a punishment so exquisite she was already trembling with anticipation.

. . . 

The drive was a blur of motion and sound. Y/N’s head was still swimming, the edges of reality soft and indistinct. She had vague, disjointed flashes of trees blurring past the window, the tight clench of Henry's jaw, the white-knuckled grip he had on the steering wheel. But the journey itself was lost to the haze. It wasn't until he was fumbling with his keys, the metal jangling with an impatient urgency, that she fully registered they were at his apartment door.

He finally got the lock to turn, shoving the door open with a sharp push. He gave her a light shove inside, not enough to hurt her, but enough to make her stumble over the threshold. He stepped in behind her, kicking the door shut with a loud, final thud that echoed through the apartment.

The sound snapped her out of her stupor. She turned to face him, a slow, wicked grin spreading across her face. The danger was palpable, a living thing in the room, and it was intoxicating. She started walking backward into the living room, her hips swaying with deliberate provocation.

"Something the matter, Henry?" she taunted, her voice a low, sultry purr. "You seem a little... tense."

Her eyes were locked on his, challenging him, daring him. But in her stoned, overconfident state, she misjudged the distance to the rug. The heel of her boot caught on the edge of the plush carpet, and she went down with a surprised yelp, landing in a heap on the floor.

Before she could even process the fall, he was on her. He loomed over her, a tall, imposing figure blocking the light. He didn't offer to help her up. Instead, he crouched down, his hand shooting out to grip the front of her shirt, pinning her firmly to the floor. The fabric stretched tight across her chest, his knuckles pressing against her collarbone.

"Did you have fun playing your little game?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Did you enjoy seeing if you could make me lose control in front of my colleagues?"

The bratty, defiant part of her, the part that had gotten her into this mess, reared its head. She smirked up at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Immensely," she shot back. "You looked like you were enjoying every second of it, too."

His eyes darkened, the last vestiges of his control shattering. He released her shirt, only to grab her chin, his fingers digging into her jaw, forcing her to meet his searing gaze.

"You think this is a game?" he snarled, his face inches from hers. "You wanted to play? Fine. We'll play. I'm going to punish you, Y/N. I'm going to use you. And you," he said, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper, "are going to take everything I give you. Do you understand?"

A shiver of pure, unadulterated lust shot through her. This was it. This was the consequence she had been chasing. She could only manage a small, submissive nod, her breath catching in her throat.

His grip on her chin tightened. "Use your words," he commanded, his voice hard and unforgiving.

She swallowed hard, her gaze never leaving his. "Yes, Professor."

"Get up," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.

He released her chin and stood, offering no hand to help her. Y/N scrambled to her feet, her legs still a little unsteady. He pointed a long, authoritative finger down the hall towards his study. "Go into my office. And bend over my desk. I’ll be right there.”

A thrill shot through her, so potent it almost made her knees buckle. She turned and walked, her steps deliberate, feeling his eyes boring into her back with every step she took. The office was exactly as she remembered: dark wood, towering bookshelves, the scent of old paper and leather. It was his sanctuary, his place of power.

She walked around the large, mahogany desk, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She placed her palms flat on the cool, polished surface and leaned forward, bending over at the waist, presenting herself to him. The position was vulnerable, submissive, and it sent a fresh wave of arousal pooling between her thighs.

He followed her in, shutting the door with a soft, definitive click. He didn't touch her. He just leaned against the door, crossing his arms, his gaze a physical weight on her.

"Take off your clothes," he said, his voice low and even. "Slowly."

Her fingers trembled as they found the hem of her sweater. She peeled it upward, the fabric a whisper against her skin. As it cleared her head, she felt the cool air of the room kiss her heated flesh, but it was nothing compared to the scorching intensity of his gaze. She let the sweater drop, a forgotten piece of fabric on the floor. 

Her hands moved behind her, fumbling with the clasp of her bra. It gave way with a soft click, and she drew the straps down her arms, the lace whispering against her skin before joining the growing pile at her feet. Her breasts, freed from their confinement, felt heavy and swollen, her nipples tightening into hard, aching points under his silent, predatory stare.

She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her skirt, her movements feeling clumsy and graceless under his unwavering scrutiny. She shimmied the material down over her hips, the soft rustle of it pooling around her ankles sounding impossibly loud in the silent room. She stood there for a moment, clad only in her panties, the last thin barrier between her and complete vulnerability. 

His eyes dropped, lingering on the damp spot already darkening the fabric between her legs. A fresh wave of heat washed over her, a mixture of shame and a fierce, undeniable pride.

She hooked her thumbs into the sides, her heart hammering against her ribs as she slowly, torturously, drew them down. The slick fabric clung for a second before peeling away, revealing her glistening, swollen folds. 

She kicked them aside, now utterly bare as she bent back over his desk like an offering on an altar.

"Good girl," he murmured, the praise a stark contrast to the dangerous edge in his voice. He pushed off the door and walked towards her, his footsteps slow and deliberate on the hardwood floor.

He stood behind her, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body. He placed a hand on the small of her back, pressing her down further, arching her spine until her ass was high in the air, her slick folds completely exposed to his view. "Count them," he ordered.

His hand came down, a sharp, stinging slap against her right ass cheek. The pain was immediate and shocking, a white-hot bloom of fire that made her gasp, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

"One," she choked out, the word barely a whisper.

Before she could fully process the sensation, his hand struck her left cheek with equal force, the impact jarring her whole body. "Two."

The third spank landed right in the middle, the impact sending a jolt straight to her clit. "Three."

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but they weren't from pain alone. With each stinging slap, a corresponding jolt of pleasure shot straight to her core. Her skin was on fire, her ass throbbing with a dull, delicious ache. She was so turned on she could feel her own wetness coating her inner thighs. She had never felt so used, so punished, or so incredibly alive.

He stood behind her, his presence a looming, powerful force. The air in the room was thick with tension and the lingering scent of her arousal. His hand came to rest on her throbbing, reddened ass cheek, his touch a cool balm against the heated skin. He kneaded it gently, his fingers digging into the flesh, a possessive claim.

"You took your punishment well," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "But I'm not finished with you yet."

He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear, his breath hot and intimate. "I'm going to fuck you here," he whispered, his finger tracing the sensitive cleft between her cheeks, circling the tight, forbidden ring of muscle. "I'm going to claim every part of you. And you are going to stay perfectly still. Do you understand me?"

A shiver of fear and pure, unadulterated lust shot through her. This was new territory, a line they had never crossed. She could only manage a desperate, breathless nod.

"Stay still," he commanded again, his voice leaving no room for disobedience.

She heard the sound of his zipper, the soft rustle of his trousers falling to the floor. She squeezed her eyes shut, her entire body tensing in anticipation. She felt him spit into his hand, heard the slick sound as he coated his hard length. Then, he was pressing against her, the thick head of his cock nudging against her tight entrance.

He pushed in slowly, agonizingly so. The pressure was intense, a burning stretch that bordered on pain. She cried out, her hands clenching into fists on the desk, her knuckles turning white. He was impossibly big, filling her in a way she had never been filled before.

"Relax," he growled, his hands gripping her hips, holding her in place. "Take it."

She forced herself to breathe, to yield to the intrusion. 

As she did, the pain began to morph into something else, a deep, dark, full-body pleasure that was overwhelming in its intensity. He began to move, his strokes slow and shallow at first, allowing her to adjust to the new sensation. Each thrust sent a jolt of electricity through her, a primal pleasure that was both shocking and intoxicating.

He picked up the pace, his movements becoming more confident, more demanding. The desk creaked in protest with each powerful thrust. She was lost in a haze of sensation, the pleasure building to an impossible crescendo. She could feel the orgasm coiling deep inside her, a tight, hot knot that was about to snap.

"I'm... I'm gonna come…," she gasped, her voice ragged.

Just as the first wave of her climax began to crest, he pulled out.

The sudden emptiness was a shock. A cry of protest escaped her lips before she could stop it. 

Before she could even process what was happening, he had flipped her over onto her back. She lay sprawled across his desk, her body still trembling from the denied orgasm.

He positioned himself between her legs, his cock, slick with her juices, pressing against her drenched, aching core. He looked down at her, his eyes dark and wild with lust.

He thrust into her in one hard, deep stroke, filling her completely. The sensation was familiar yet amplified, a direct, intense pleasure after the dark, forbidden thrill of moments before. He hooked her legs over his arms, spreading her wide, and began to fuck her with a punishing, relentless rhythm.

This was no longer about punishment. This was about claiming. He was taking her, marking her as his, his hips slamming into hers with a force that made the desk shake. The denied orgasm came roaring back, stronger and more powerful than before.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice strained.

She forced her eyes open, her gaze locking with his. The sight of him, so lost in his own desire, his face contorted with pleasure, was what nearly sent her over the edge. 

The pleasure built to an impossible peak, a white-hot wave of ecstasy that was just about to crash over her. She could feel it, the tightening in her core, the tingling in her limbs. She was right there, teetering on the edge. Her hands flew up, desperate to cling to him, to pull him deeper, to push herself over that final precipice.

But he was faster.

His hands shot out, grabbing her wrists and pinning them down against the hard wood of the desk with an iron grip.

The movement was sudden, forceful, and it shattered her momentum.

He kept thrusting, his pace brutal, his own release imminent. With a low, guttural groan, he buried himself inside her, his body shuddering as he emptied himself into her.

The feeling of him cumming, the hot flood of his release, was what should have sent her spiraling. 

She was so close, just a fraction away. 

But as the last tremor of his orgasm subsided, he pulled out of her with a swift, abrupt motion.

He stood over her, his chest heaving, his cock still hard and glistening with their combined fluids. A cruel, satisfied smirk played on his lips as he looked down at her trembling, desperate form.

"Did you really think I'd let you cum that easily?" he taunted, his voice a low, predatory purr. "After the little stunt you pulled today? Oh no, Y/N. You don't get to cum until I say you can."

He reached down, his fingers tracing a path through the mess on her inner thigh, gathering their slickness on his fingertips. He brought his fingers to his lips, his eyes locked on hers as he tasted them. "You taste delicious when you're desperate," he murmured.

"No," she whined, her voice a desperate, breathy plea. "Please...I was so close. I want to cum."

He loomed over her, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and unreadable. A cruel, satisfied smirk played on his lips. "You want to cum?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "You don't get to cum. Not yet. You have to earn it."

He released her wrists and took a step back, his spent cock glistening. He looked down at her, sprawled and desperate on his desk. "On your knees," he commanded.

Her body moved on pure instinct, sliding off the desk and sinking to the floor in front of him. The cool hardwood was a stark contrast to the fire still raging under her skin. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and glassy, a chaotic mix of frustration, desperation, and utter submission.

"You didn't get to finish what you started in the auditorium," he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "So you're going to finish it now. On your knees."

He didn't wait for her to initiate. His hand shot out, fisting in her hair, the grip possessive and unyielding. He used the hold to pull her head forward, tilting her face up until her neck was a long, vulnerable line. "Open."

Her lips parted instantly, a silent, willing offering. 

He guided the slick, swollen head of his cock to her mouth, not pushing in immediately, but smearing their combined fluids over her lips, marking her with the scent and taste of their fucking. "Taste what you did," he commanded. "Taste how bad you wanted this."

Then he fed her his length, sliding past her lips in one slow, deliberate thrust that filled her completely. The taste was musky and primal, his salt, her musk, a heady cocktail that made her head spin.

He didn't start slow nor did he give her a chance to take control. He set a punishing rhythm from the very beginning, fucking her mouth with deep, hard thrusts that hit the back of her throat, making her gag and her eyes water. 

Saliva mixed with pre-cum dribbled down her chin, a messy testament to his possession.

"That's it," he growled, his hips pumping, the sound of his flesh hitting her mouth obscene in the quiet room. "Take it. Take every fucking inch. This is what you wanted, isn't it? To be on your knees for me, choking on my cock."

The ache between her legs was a physical torment, a deep, throbbing need that demanded attention. Desperate for any friction, for any relief, her hand slid down her stomach, her fingers finding her swollen, sensitive clit and beginning to rub in frantic, desperate circles.

She had barely made contact when his grip in her hair tightened painfully, a sharp, corrective sting that made her cry out around his mouthful of cock.

He thrust deep, forcing his cock past her resistance and down her throat, cutting off her air in a rush. 

Her eyes flew open, watering instantly as she choked around him, her body's convulsive grip massaging his length. He held her there for a terrifying, exhilarating second, a display of absolute dominance, before pulling back just enough to let her suck in a ragged, desperate gasp for air.

"Did I tell you that you could touch yourself?" he snarled, his voice laced with ice and fire. He smacked her cheek, not hard, but a sharp, stinging reminder of his control. "This isn't for you. This is for me. This mouth is mine to use. You don't get to cum until I say so. Now put your hands behind your back and don't move them again."

Trembling, a fresh wave of dark arousal washing over her so strong it made her dizzy, she laced her fingers together behind her back, arching her spine and presenting herself for his use. She was completely surrendered, a vessel for his pleasure.

He rewarded her obedience by resuming his brutal pace, using her mouth without mercy. 

The promise of her own release felt more distant and more coveted than ever before, a forbidden fruit she could only earn through his complete satisfaction. 

With her hands locked behind her back, she surrendered completely to his rhythm. He used her mouth without mercy, his groans growing louder, his thrusts more erratic. 

She could feel him swelling, his entire body tensing as he chased his own release. With a final, guttural moan, he buried himself deep, his cock pulsing as he came down her throat. She swallowed instinctively, taking everything he gave her, the act of submission a final, intoxicating thrill.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was their ragged breathing. He slowly pulled out of her mouth, his grip on her hair softening into a gentle caress. He looked down at her, his expression a complex mix of satisfaction and something softer, something that looked like awe.

He reached down, his hands gentle now, and helped her up off the floor. As soon as she was standing, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.

He pulled back just enough to capture her lips again, his kiss possessive and searing, tasting of their shared essence. It wasn't a kiss of dominance or punishment this time; it was deep, passionate, and filled with a fierce, undeniable affection that made her chest ache.

When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against hers. "Perhaps," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, "you have earned your reward."

A slow, triumphant smile spread across Y/N's face. The ache between her legs, the desperate need that had been building for hours, roared back to life. She didn't hesitate. 

In a swift, fluid motion, she pushed him. He was so taken aback by her sudden strength that he stumbled back, his legs hitting the edge of his desk. He lost his balance and fell back, his back flat on the polished wood before he could catch himself.

Before he could react, she was on him. She climbed onto his lap, straddling him, her knees pressing into the desk on either side of his thighs. She grabbed his face, forcing him to look at her as she positioned herself over his already-hardening cock.

"God, Henry," she breathed, her voice a husky, desperate whisper as she sank down onto him, taking him in to the hilt. 

They both groaned at the sudden, intense fullness. 

"I am so turned on. I've been wet for you since the auditorium."

She began to move, a slow, grinding rhythm that made his eyes flutter shut. She leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear. "I love it when you're rough with me," she whispered, her voice a seductive caress. "I love it when you lose control because of me."

She rocked her hips, riding him with a growing confidence, her hands tangled in his hair. "I love the way you looked at me when you were punishing me," she continued, her words a litany of praise and desire. "I love the way you taste. I love the way you feel inside me."

She pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes, her own dark with a lust that matched his. She held his gaze, her movements never ceasing. "And I love you, Henry," she whispered, the words raw and vulnerable despite how rough he was with her earlier. "I love you so much."

Henry’s eyes snapped open, the depth of his emotion warring with the raw lust in his gaze. He gripped her waist, his fingers digging into her soft skin, anchoring her as he surged upward, meeting her thrust for thrust. "Then take what you want," he growled, his voice breaking. "Take me."

She didn't need telling twice. She rode him harder, her hips snapping forward with renewed urgency. The friction was maddening, the sensation of being filled completely by him driving her wild. She threw her head back, her hair cascading down her back, as she surrendered to the rhythm.

He reached up, his hands cupping her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, which were already hard and sensitive. He pulled one into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the peak, sending jolts of electricity straight to her core. He suckled on her, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin, making her cry out.

"More," she begged, her voice breathless. "Please, Henry."

He released her breast with a wet pop, his eyes dark and hungry. He sat up slightly, his mouth moving to the other one, his teeth grazing the nipple, his tongue licking the sensitive flesh. He nipped at it, his teeth sinking into the soft flesh, drawing a sharp gasp from her lips.

He took her breast into his mouth again, his tongue swirling around the peak, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin, up and down, back and forth, sending waves of pleasure crashing through her. 

She was on the edge, her body trembling, her eyes rolling back as she rode him faster.

He pulled back, his hands leaving her breasts, and he looked at her, his eyes dark and wild. "You're so beautiful like this," he he said, his voice strained. "So beautiful…”

She gasped, the words sending her over the edge. With a loud cry, she came, her body shuddering, her inner muscles clamping down tight around him, milking him for all he was worth.

Henry groaned, the sensation of her tight pussy clenching around him was too much. He thrust upward, burying himself deep, and with a soft groan, he came as well, his hot seed spurting deep inside her, filling her completely.

They collapsed onto the desk, a sweaty, tangled mess of limbs, both spent and panting. The smell of sex filled the air, a heady, intoxicating mix of their bodies. He pulled her closer, holding her tight against his chest, his lips pressed against her forehead.

They stayed there for a while, catching their breath in the quiet that followed, no audience, no stage lights, no footsteps outside a classroom door. Just the low hum of the apartment, the desk beneath them, Henry’s arms locked around her like he was making a point he didn’t trust words to hold.

His mouth pressed to her forehead again, lingering.

Then, quietly, Henry murmured, “I love you.”

She lifted her head slightly, still close enough to feel his breath. “Say it again,” she whispered.

Henry’s hand smoothed along her back, slow, grounding. “I love you.”

The words landed like aftercare all by themselves.

Y/N swallowed and let her forehead rest against his shoulder for a second, letting her eyes close. Then she pulled back just enough to look at him properly, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, expression soft but searching.

“Were you actually mad?” she asked, voice quiet. “About what I did in the auditorium?”

Henry’s gaze held hers for a beat. He didn’t dodge it.

“No,” he said. Then, after a breath, he corrected himself with more honesty. “I was mad. But not at you.”

Y/N’s brows knit. “Then why—”

Henry exhaled, tiredness visible in the way his eyes narrowed briefly, like he’d been holding a whole day inside his body. “Because my day was long,” he admitted. “Because it was stressful. Because the least stressful part of my day was you…and I didn’t even get to—“

“Come?” she asked softly with her brows raised slightly.

His jaw flexed once. “…Yes. And relieve my stress, so I took it out on you.”

Y/N’s eyes softened. “Henry…”

“I shouldn’t have,” he added immediately, voice firm. “Not like that.”

Y/N watched him for a second, then her mouth curved, slow, warmed by something private. “I’m glad you took it out on me in a healthy way.”

Henry blinked. “Healthy?”

Y/N nodded, absolutely sincere. “Yes.”

His expression shifted into that familiar mix of exasperation and reluctant amusement. “You have a very flexible definition of healthy.”

Y/N smiled wider. “I’m just saying…you’re hot when you’re mad.”

Henry’s eyes darkened slightly at that, but his voice stayed controlled. “You’re encouraging bad behavior.”

“Maybe,” she said, then added softly, “but I like you like that. I love your sweet side in bed but getting angrily fucked is incredible.”

A quiet huff of laughter escaped him, a sound that was more air than noise. He shifted slightly, the movement causing a pleasant aftershock to ripple through her. He didn't look away from her, his gaze intense and searching.

He paused, his thumb stroking her cheek. "I'm also mad at myself. For wanting it this much. For losing control like that. For wanting to do it all over again right now."

His eyes dropped to her lips for a moment before meeting her gaze again. "But you're right," he admitted, his voice dropping even lower, thick with a raw honesty. "There's a part of me that... enjoys it. That enjoys the chaos you bring. The way you make me feel like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff."

He leaned in, his lips hovering just a breath from hers. "And the sweet side in bed..." he murmured, his voice a husky whisper. "That's for you. This... this angry, desperate need... that's all for me. Because of you."

He closed the final distance, kissing her softly, a stark contrast to the frantic intensity from before. It was a slow, deep, and deliberate kiss, a silent confirmation that he was hers, in every possible way.

Henry’s gaze held hers the moment she pulled back from the kiss, and something in it softened, tension bleeding out of him in real time, replaced by something steadier. He pressed a kiss to her hairline again, calmer now.

“I don’t want to scare you,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t,” Y/N answered. “You just… felt like you.”

Henry’s throat moved as he swallowed. “That’s not always a good thing.”

Y/N’s fingers touched his jaw, gentle. “It is when you come back to me after.”

Henry went still at that. Then he nodded once, as if he was taking it as a rule.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy with the kind of closeness that made the room feel smaller in a good way.

Eventually Henry shifted, careful. “Come here.”

Y/N tried to move, and the second her weight shifted off him, her legs protested.

She made a small sound of surprise and grabbed the edge of the desk for balance. “Oh my God.”

Henry’s hand came to her waist instantly, steadying her. “Easy.”

“My legs are…” she inhaled, laughing weakly, “…jello.”

Henry’s mouth nearly twitched into a smirk. “Yes.”

Y/N shot him a look. “Don’t sound pleased.”

Henry didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

He guided her down carefully, feet finding the floor, her knees wobbling like she’d run a marathon she hadn’t trained for. Henry kept one hand at her back, the other ready to catch her if she tipped.

When she finally stood upright, she looked up at him with that sleepy, satisfied softness that always made him look briefly ruined.

Henry smoothed a thumb once along her side, grounding her again. “Come shower,” he said.

Y/N blinked slowly. “Together?”

Henry’s eyes flicked to hers. “If you want.”

Y/N’s mouth curved. “I always want.”

Henry gave her a look that said he was trying very hard to be a responsible adult and failing.

Then he took her hand, firm, sure, and led her away from the desk and toward the bathroom, the rest of the apartment quiet behind them.

And for once, the night didn’t feel like something they were stealing.

It felt like something they were keeping.

. . .

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