Forbidden Desires.

I tell myself it was nothing, that it was just a passing interaction, a moment that only meant something because I wanted it to.

Yet, it happens again, and this time, I know I'm not imagining it as I don't usually go to office hours. If I'm struggling with an assignment, I'd figure it out myself.

But this time, I am moving in the long corridor that leads to the office, not because I need help, I just want to see what happens if we're alone.

Moments later, Professor Cross's office is tucked into a quiet corner of the Literature building, the kind of place students only visit when they have to.

The door is open just a crack when I get there, and I hear his voice before I see him, it's low, tone measured and controlled.

I knock lightly. "Come in." His voice was deep.

I step inside, closing the door behind me. The space is neat and organized, every book and paper perfectly arranged, just like him.

He looks up from his desk, eyes moving to mine. "Monroe."

I set my notebook down. "I had a few questions about the paper."

He gestures to the chair across from him. "Go on."

I sit, carefully crossing my legs. His gaze doesn't drop, but something in his jaw tightens that feels good.

"I wanted to ask about subtext," I say, flipping open my notebook. "You said in class that what isn't said is just as important as what is."

He nods. "That's right."

I tap my pen against the page, watching him. "So, if a character never explicitly says what they want, but it's obvious in the way they act..." I let my voice drop just slightly. "That still counts, doesn't it?"

Saying that, his expression wavers and at the same time, the air between us changes.

"Yes," he says, slowly. "It does."

I rest my chin on my hand. "And if they keep pushing boundaries, even when they shouldn't?"

He exhales quietly, leaning back in his chair. "Then it becomes dangerous."

My heart skips and for a second, neither of us speaks, not long after, he clears his throat. "Was that your actual question, or are you wasting my time?"

I smile. "Maybe a little of both," I say.

He let out a deep breath, running a hand over his jaw. "If you're done, you should go." He affirms, however, that he doesn't say it like he means it.

I stand slowly, gathering my things. As I turn to leave, my fingers brush the edge of his desk, just a slight contact, barely anything at all.

But his breath catches and that's when I know, this is getting dangerous, even at that, I don't think I want to stop.

Even as days pass, the encounter still lingers, and I tell myself I won't do it again.

I tell myself the last time was just a game, a test to see how far I could push before he shut it down.

But then the universe gives me another chance to push and this time, I don't hesitate.

The library is almost empty when I see him again.

It's late, too late for most students to still be here, but I like the quiet and the isolation.

Meanwhile, I'm tucked away in the farthest row of bookshelves, skimming through an old novel for an upcoming essay, when I hear footsteps, slow, and steady.

I glance up and my pulse throb. 'Professor Cross.' I was surprised.

He's a few rows over, browsing through the philosophy section like he has nowhere better to be. He's wearing a dark button-down, sleeves rolled up as usual, hair slightly disheveled like he's been running his hands through it too much.

He hasn't seen me yet and I should leave before he does.

However, I don't. Instead, I reach for a book, deliberately knocking another off the shelf.

It lands with a quiet thud, and the footsteps pause before shifting and taking a step forward.

A moment later, he steps into my aisle, his gaze lands on the fallen book, then slowly moves up to me.

"Careless," he murmurs.

My lips curl up. "Or intentional."

His jaw tightens. "Monroe." He says with his deep and rough voice.

The way he says my name, soft, and careful, like it's a warning, sends a thrill down my spine.

I crouch, picking up the book slowly, and intentionally. The moment I stand, I realize we're standing too close. Close enough that I can smell the faintest trace of his cologne, clean and dark.

His eyes stay locked on mine, unreadable. "You shouldn't be here this late."

I tilt my head. "Neither should you."

He exhales sharply, running a hand down his face. "I don't have time for whatever game you think this is."

"Who says it's a game?"

Saying that, something flickers in his expression, and for a second I think he might actually give in.

But then he steps back, putting space between us. "Go home, Monroe."

I should, really. Instead, I take a slow step forward, closing the distance again.

And then, I made the first real mistake, perhaps I wasn't thinking right as I reached up just barely and touched the sleeve of his shirt.

Not much, just a brush of my fingertips against the rolled-up fabric, however, the reaction is immediate.

In a flash, his hand snaps up, gripping my wrist before I can pull away.

I suck in a breath, not because it hurts. Because it doesn't, It's just firm and unyielding.

For a heartbeat, neither of us move and slowly, he lets go.

"Go," he says again, voice rougher this time.

Seeing the danger in his voice, this time, I listen, but as I walk away, my skin still tingling where he touched me, I know something has changed.

'This isn't a game anymore.' I tell myself.

Meanwhile, the next time I walk into class, I swear I can still feel his grip on my wrist.

It's ridiculous as It wasn't even that much, it was just a second, maybe two, before he let go, yet my body remembers and so does he.

On the contrary, Professor Cross doesn't look at me when I take my seat at first.

He sets down his bag, adjusts his glasses, and starts the lecture. And for a while, I think maybe I imagined it, maybe last night meant nothing, and that I read too much into it.

Suddenly, I saw a pause and a flicker of hesitation in his voice when he glanced my way like he knows I'm watching, to make it even worse, he stares back.

It's subtle and almost imperceptible.

But suddenly, I'm hyper-aware of every movement he makes. The way his fingers brush the edge of the desk. The way his tongue flicks over his bottom lip before he speaks. The way his eyes drag over the classroom before stopping on me not for too long or enough for anyone else to notice, it's enough for me to notice as I was gazing at him.

Meanwhile, when the lecture ends, I don't leave right away and neither does he.

I wait until the last student goes out before standing, I take my time gathering my things, waiting until the door swings shut behind them. When I finally look up, he's watching me.

He breathed heavily, running a hand down his face. "What do you want, Monroe?"

I shrug. "Just taking my time."

"Take it somewhere else."

I smirk. "I don't think you mean that."

He leans back against the desk, crossing his arms. He looks tired, frustrated, and maybe even a little reckless.

"This needs to stop." His voice is firm, but there's something else beneath it, and it's unconvincing.

I take a slow step forward, just close enough to test him. "Then stop it," I say.

A muscle in his jaw twitches, and just when I think he's going to do it, like shut it down, set the boundary, and walk away, he doesn't.

However, his eyes drop briefly to my lips and at that moment, I know this isn't just me anymore as whatever this is, I'm sure as hell that he feels it too.