Justin POV:
She was unraveling.
Fingers white-knuckled on the desk. Thighs shaking. Breath catching in her throat.
Her hand still wrapped around , slower now, desperate, twitching in ti with every stroke I gave her.
God, the feel of her—tight, hot, drenched—I could’ve co right then and there.
But I didn’t.
Wouldn’t.
Not until she broke first.
I leaned in, teeth grazing the edge of her jaw.
"Say it," I whispered. "Say you’re mine."
Her lips parted, breathless. She almost did.
Then—
"That’s it for today, class."
The professor’s voice cracked through the air, and the room exploded with motion.
Chairs screeching. Papers rustling. Laughter. Backpacks zipping.
But we didn’t move.
Not an inch.
Frozen in the heat of it.
Her hand still on . My fingers still deep inside her. Both of us breathing too hard, too uneven.
We just... stared forward.
Like nothing had happened.
Like everything had.
We stayed seated as the theater-like classroom emptied out, chairs creaking and footsteps echoing until the last student left—slamming the door behind them.
The sound echoed through the silence.
I couldn’t help it. Whether it was physics or divine intervention, I sent up a silent thank-you—because fuck, I needed her.
Right there. Right now.
Yeah, soone could walk in.
Yeah, it was risky.
But hell, that made it even better.
I shoved my chair back roughly, tal scraping the floor, and reached for her. She didn’t hesitate. Climbed into my lap like we’d both had the sa exact thought at the sa ti.
Great minds think alike.
Or maybe insane ones do.
She straddled , skirts pushed up, and when she sank down—slow, torturous—I gripped her ass and drove up into her in one sharp thrust.
Her gasp nearly made lose it.
Her gasp cut through like lightning.
I held still for a second, buried deep inside her, letting the sensation wrap around , pulse through , anchor . Her nails dug into my shoulders, her breath hot against my neck.
She rocked her hips slowly.
Once. Twice.
And I growled—low, guttural—gripping her tighter, matching her rhythm, then setting my own.
Every thrust hit deep.
Every drag out felt like torture.
And she was clenching around , trembling, biting down on my shoulder to muffle her sounds.
"Fuck," I whispered. "You’re driving insane."
Her lips brushed my ear, her voice ragged. "Good."
That did it.
I snapped my hips up harder, faster, one hand sliding under her shirt, palming her breast while the other gripped her waist, guiding her. The chair beneath us creaked with every movent, the sound swallowed by the echoing silence of the room.
I didn’t care.
She didn’t either.
She was holding onto like I was the only thing keeping her tethered, her forehead pressed to mine, our breath tangled and mouths barely touching—lips grazing, teasing, lost in the space between restraint and total collapse.
"Say it," I whispered.
She shook her head, teasing.
I thrust up again. "Say it."
"I’m yours," she choked out, barely audible. "Fuck, Justin—I’m yours."
We ca together in a heart-shattering mont—
Her body shaking against mine.
My grip bruising.
Our mouths pressed together in sothing that was more desperate than it was tender.
It was more than just sex.
It was rage.
Fear.
Loneliness.
Grief.
The kind of ache that carves through bone and sets up ho in the hollow left behind.
She collapsed against , chest heaving.
I wrapped my arms around her and didn’t let go.
Couldn’t.
The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful.
It was loud.
Too loud.
Our breaths filled it.
Our thoughts poisoned it.
And as the sweat cooled on our skin, the weight of what we were—not quite lovers, not quite broken strangers—settled heavy in my chest.
She didn’t look at .
She just stayed there, curled in my lap, head resting on my shoulder like maybe if she didn’t move, she wouldn’t have to face whatever ca next.
And I didn’t push.
Because I didn’t know if I could handle her pulling away.
I wanted to say sothing. Anything.
But every word died in my throat.
Because what the hell do you say when your heart just cracked open, raw and exposed—and you don’t know if the other person felt it too?
So I held her.
Tighter than I should’ve.
Maybe longer than I should’ve.
And I let the silence swallow us whole.
We went to lunch after that.
Still dazed.
Still carrying the ghost of what happened back in that classroom on our skin like second sweat.
She sat across from , picking at her food like it was a chore.
And I watched her. Not the way I usually did—hungry, wanting.
This ti, I was searching.
Searching for the girl who ca apart in my arms, who moaned my na like it was a lifeline.
But she was already slipping through my fingers again.
"Co back to my place after school?"
I asked it low. Casual. Like it didn’t matter.
But it did.
I saw it instantly—the way her eyes dulled.
The sparkle? Gone.
Her real smile? Crushed and stuffed behind the mask I fucking hated.
That fake grin.
The practiced, popular-girl curve of lips that ant nothing and everything at the sa ti.
I loathed it.
Because it ant I was losing her again.
She didn’t answer right away. Just stabbed a piece of lettuce and said, "I can’t. I’ve got stuff to do at ho. Maybe tomorrow?"
Maybe tomorrow.
The phrase made my jaw clench.
Because I’ve heard it before.
Maybe tomorrow ant never.
Maybe tomorrow ant don’t ask again.
And it made want to scream.
Tear the mask off her face.
Shake her and yell, Why won’t you let in? Why do you run from when I’m the only one who sees you?
But I didn’t say any of that.
I just nodded once.
Tight. Controlled.
And went back to pretending I was okay, too.
After lunch, we had a three-hour class.
Three fucking hours of pretending.
Of watching her fall apart in slow motion while everyone else stayed blissfully unaware.
She was jittery.
Couldn’t keep still.
Tapping her pen, then chewing on it, then dropping it and muttering a soft curse as she reached for it.
Her legs were crossed, uncrossed, crossed again.
Her eyes kept flicking toward the clock like it was counting down to sothing worse than death.
She was unraveling.
And I noticed. Every twitch. Every shallow breath. Every ti she blinked too fast like trying to hold sothing in.
It drove insane.
I wanted to grab her hand. Drag her out of the classroom. Ask her what the hell was going on and who the hell she turned into after 3PM.
But I didn’t.
Because every ti I reached out too far, she snapped back like a rubber band—tense, fake smile, evasive eyes.
And I hated it.
I hated not knowing.
Hated how she shut out.
And worst of all, I hated how damn powerless I felt. Like I could fuck her, kiss her, tease her, touch every inch of her body—but never get close enough to touch her soul.
So instead, I watched.
Like so kind of ghost haunting her seat.
And as the minutes crawled by, I felt the storm inside her rise.
Sothing was coming.
And she knew it.
After class ended, she was in a rush.
Barely looked at , just gathered her things like the clock had a knife to her throat.
I offered to drive her ho—again.
She declined—again.
This ti, with a quick kiss that barely grazed my lips.
"Sorry, I really have to get ho," she said, eyes already looking past , over my shoulder, toward the exit.
"Sothing urgent. Rain check, okay?"
Then she was gone.
Just like that.
And I stood there, watching the door swing behind her like it had just swallowed my peace whole.
Why the fuck was she always so eager to get ho before 4PM?
Why did her smile falter the second I offered to take her there?
Why did it feel like every ti she looked at , there was sothing clawing inside her she wouldn’t na?
I didn’t stop her.
Didn’t grab her wrist and ask what the hell was going on.
Didn’t push.
******
I was halfway across the parking lot when I heard her again—
That voice I already wanted to erase from my head.
"Justin. Did you consider my offer?"
Army.
Fucking Army.
I didn’t answer. Didn’t look. Just kept walking toward my car like she didn’t exist.
But of course, she didn’t stop.
"Don’t you wanna know where she’s always rushing off to?"
That made freeze.
I turned, slow.
Her smile widened like she’d just won sothing.
"What is she rushing to?" I asked, jaw tight.
But instead of answering, the stupid bitch just smirked like a villain in so low-budget soap opera.
"Co. Lem show you."
She tried to open the passenger side door.
I slamd it shut before she could get in.
"You’re not getting in my car."
That pissed her off—good.
But even as she huffed, flicking her hair like so overconfident serpent, she still got the last word.
"et at the address I gave you... thirty minutes."
Her heels clicked away before I could respond, her voice floating back with a sing-song edge:
"You’ll see for yourself what your sweet little secret rushes ho to do."
I watched her walk off, my fists clenched at my sides.
Fuck.
I shouldn’t go.
I really shouldn’t.
But the seed was planted. The poison already in my veins.
And curiosity?
Curiosity is a hell of a drug when it’s laced with doubt and obsession.
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