"Some rules are made to be bent. Others are meant to be broken."
The clock ticked past 6:00 PM.
The hallways of St. Laurent College were eerily quiet, lit only by the soft flicker of motion-sensitive lights and the golden spill of sunset streaming through high windows. Every door was shut except one.
Room B104.
Inside sat Isla Romero, her arms folded across her chest, foot tapping against the floor. Detention had never scared her rules rarely did but something about being alone this late, in a locked building, waiting for him, made her pulse tick a little faster.
He was always late.
Always composed.
Always watching.
Professor Maddox Hale. Literature professor by day. Something far more dangerous by night.
He walked in ten minutes late, as always, carrying nothing but a black leather-bound notebook and a look that could melt granite.
"You're still here," he said, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
"Unfortunately," Isla replied, arching a brow. "What am I being punished for this time?"
"You tell me." He leaned against the desk, unbuttoning his cuffs with practiced ease. "You wrote a poem about setting fire to the institution. I'd say that warrants a conversation."
She smirked. "Metaphors, professor. It's literature. I thought you of all people would appreciate dramatic flair."
He stepped closer. "It wasn't the flair that concerned me. It was the part about 'ripping off the mask of authority with a kiss that burns.'"
A beat of silence.
Isla looked up slowly. "Did it make you nervous?"
"No," Maddox murmured, circling behind her. "It made me curious."
Their relationship had always walked a dangerous line.
She was brilliant. Sharp-tongued. Unafraid to challenge.
He was careful. Respected. Burdened by the weight of ethics and unspoken rules.
But the tension had grown.
In heated debates over novels.
In the brush of hands when passing papers.
In the way she looked at him like she knew exactly what she was doing.
And tonight, there were no rules left.
"I don't think you came here for detention," Maddox said lowly, his voice just behind her.
Isla tilted her head back. "Maybe I wanted to see what happened if I stopped pretending."
He leaned down, his breath brushing her ear. "And what do you think will happen?"
"I think," she whispered, "you'll finally stop pretending too."
He moved fast one moment guarded, the next devoured by something primal.
His hand cupped her jaw, turning her face toward him, their lips meeting in a kiss that was equal parts punishment and surrender. The desk groaned beneath them as he lifted her onto it, sweeping papers aside, years of resistance crashing like waves against the shore of restraint.
His tie was loosened. Her blouse was undone. Breathless words were exchanged between kisses that tasted like sin and salvation.
And when he whispered her name like a secret prayer, she whispered back:
"Detention never felt so good."
The night didn't end with regrets.
Just the promise of another rule they'd break tomorrow.