Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You’ve always wanted to be a writer. Ever since you were a child, you’ve written letters to your family. It started innocently enough with a child's scribbled love letter to your mom, filled with more hearts than actual words. Then came the persuasive letters, cleverly disguised as requests to get you to sleep over at Sarah's house. Moreover, your passion for books and the joy of understanding words grew. You were always trying to make your case, always using words to sway, to charm, to get your way. 

Over time, your love for books deepened, and your joy in understanding language grew into something more. By age eleven, you had practically memorized the dictionary—not for any practical purpose, but because you genuinely found it fun. You begged your family to play Scrabble at every gathering, and when they inevitably rolled their eyes, you’d play alone, challenging yourself to build the biggest, most obscure words possible. 

Honestly, that says enough. 

Your family has often found this odd, peculiar. In a household of technical minds—your sister, an engineer; your brother, a lawyer—you were the outlier. The dreamer. The kid that’s always scribbling in the margins of notebooks. It emphasizes contrast. Sometimes, you even wonder why you love writing so much. Maybe it’s about control—the power to shape thoughts and mold emotions with nothing but carefully chosen letters. Or maybe it’s about escape. Words can build worlds. And in those worlds, anything feels possible.

But more than that, words feel like a connection—a way to bridge the gap between your secret garden in your mind and the actual shit reality world you live in.

Before you know it, fall semester has started. You’ve mapped out your schedule: five core classes, all literature, enrolling in 5 prerequisite classes to get you progressing with your education. You're in your fourth year of English Literature. All your classes are now about, well, English and Literature. You love it because you’re finally getting closer to your dream, to write to the world.

You’re a damn good student. Straight A’s, top of your class, the professor's favorite. You’ve never been late, never missed a class, and never failed to turn in a paper on time. You’ve never in your life heard a complaint from a professor; every professor praises you, you are the ultimate student. You’ve got it all figured out, at least on paper…

On Monday morning, you wake up early. There’s a crispness in the air, that first-week-of-fall kind of sharpness. You dress casually—blue jeans, that thrifted sweater you like, the one that feels a little too soft and a little too worn in all the right ways. You toss a notebook into your bag, grab a coffee, and head out. Your first day as a junior in university, you’re so, so close to being over with this and getting on with your dream role in this life.

Last spring, you took a business writing course with Mr. Johnson. He was fine—dry, a bit too obsessed with PowerPoints, but ultimately harmless. The class wasn’t your style, but you got through it. You wrote your papers, earned your A, checked the box, and moved on.

This fall, you’re taking a poetry class with Miss Swift. That’s what’s written on the paper— SWIFT, T. - Advanced Poetry and Form . Though her reputation has already made its way around campus, you’ve never seen this teacher on campus or anywhere. But your roommate has taken two of her classes. She didn’t say much—just that she’s really good and really strict . She’s the kind of teacher who circles typos in red ink like it’s a personal offense. She doesn’t accept late work, period. “Deadlines are deadlines,” your roommate said with a grim little nod. “No exceptions. You could be coughing up blood, and she’d still expect your villanelle on her desk by 9 am.”

No problem, you thought, easy work, that’s all you do anyways, what’s the worst that could happen?

8:40 AM You’re already there—twenty minutes early because, of course, you are. You double-check the class number written in tiny print on your schedule. Room 411 . Sounds right. 

You head into the classroom, middle seat, third row—dead center. Perfect. You put your bag there, claiming your seat.

There’s a stillness to the room at this hour. Just the hum of the overhead lights and the occasional scuff of sneakers against the floor. You pull out your notebook and a black gel pen—your favorite, smooth as hell—and start absentmindedly sketching little cats on the corner of the first page, passing the time.

Slowly, students start filling up the room. The room starts to fill. It’s a big class—forty, maybe forty-five students total. You're grateful you came early; half the seats are already taken, and it’s not even 8:50 yet.

Every time someone enters through the door, your eyes glance up to check if it’s Miss Swift, but nope. Just a dude who had just woken up 5 minutes ago and rushed out. His hair was messy as hell, you giggled.

Anyways.

It’s 8:59 AM. You’re scrolling on your phone when you hear the sharp clink of heels. You glance up—and there she is. The one and only Miss Swift. Finally.

Her heeled boots strike the floor in perfect rhythm as she walks to the desk, each step confident, deliberate. Her blonde hair is smooth and immaculate, falling just so around her face. She’s wearing tailored beige trousers that skim her long legs with casual precision, a black top tucked neatly beneath a structured blazer, you also notice that she’s really tall, damn . Anyways .. 

There’s something about her—an effortless elegance. She’s the type to read Rimbaud for breakfast and judges your taste in pens. She definitely judges your taste in pens. Oh my god. 

She walks in with a stack of books and papers hugged to her chest and sets them down on the desk with quiet precision. She looks up into the classroom, reading every person in there.

“Good morning,” she says. Her voice is low, raspy, measured—like she’s never once raised it unnecessarily.

Her eyes flick to yours. Pause. Flick again. Then to the attendance sheet.

“I’m Professor Swift, Taylor Swift,” she begins, her voice low, deliberate. “This is Advanced Poetry and Form ,” she announces, cool and unbothered. “If you’re in the wrong room, you’ve got sixty seconds to save yourself.” Her gaze locks on yours again, which makes your stomach do a very dramatic thing.

No one moves.

“Good,” she continues, unzipping a small pouch from her bag. “I don’t teach beginners. I teach writers.” No idea why that sentence sent a shiver down your spine.

“I’ll take attendance now, Please correct me if I accidentally misspelled your name.” Confidence drips from her tongue; everything she speaks or does is perfect, every breath. God, it’s hot.

She starts reading through the names, one by one, and of course, your name is last. You rolled your eyes to yourself, knowing this would happen to you. 

Classic. 

Her eyes flick up to look at you, just for a second. “Did I miss anyone?” She scans the room once more.

Your brows furrow, and you hesitantly raise your hand, “Um—Yeah, me. You didn’t call my name.”

This so fucking embarrassing.

Taylor looks up at you fully now, brows slightly raised. “Your name?”

You clear your throat, saying it aloud, trying to keep your voice from doing something embarrassing, like cracking or fading out.

Taylor hums, and you see her write it down on the paper. Then her eyes flick up. Land on you. Just for a second. “Stay after class, please.”

A pause.

You nod your head.

Taylor’s lips curl for a second, and she nods once, clears her throat, and moves on.

“So, Advanced Poetry and Form. If you’re here for Intro to Creative Writing or “ Finding Your Voice,” She subtly lifts one brow, “you’re in the wrong place.”

A few students chuckle nervously. Well damn she’s! Not messin’ around!

Swift strolls around the front of the room as she speaks, “This class is not about inspiration. I’m not here to be your muse.” Silly thing to say here, Miss Swift, you’re gorgeous, how can you not be anyone’s muse?

Focus.

“Poetry isn’t just emotion thrown on a page.” She continues, “Poetry comes with rhythm. Precision.” Swift walks to the whiteboard with her marker in her hand.

Drawing on the whiteboard some timeline as she was going, “Over the next fourteen weeks, we will study form. Traditional forms—villanelle, pantoum, ghazal, sonnet, sestina—and contemporary variations.”

Taylor takes in a deep breath and walks back to her desk, places her hands on either side of it, and meets the gaze of a few students—briefly, evenly. Her eyes linger on you for just a breath longer than the others. Then she continues. “You will write poems that follow strict meter and rhyme schemes. You will break your habits. You will fail at least once, and that’s good. That’s the point. I’m not interested in what comes easily to you. I want what costs something.” A faint grin was painted on her face when she looked at you. 

What the hell…

“You’ll have weekly assignments. There will be no late submissions. You will be expected to read in front of the class. You’ve been warned.”

A beat of silence.

“If that scares you,” she says, voice dipping ever so slightly, “it should.”

Can she not? This is so corny…. Definitely not hot… Anyways….

“But if it excites you, then stay.” Taylor smiles, and it’s really nice when she does; her smile is warm, unexpectedly soft, not what you’d expect from her after this big scary talk.

“Poetry isn’t really that hard,” she continues, her voice gentler now. “You just need to be honest. Brutally, unapologetically honest. Feel what you’re writing, deeply, and put your mind behind every line. If you do that, and I promise by the end of this semester, you’ll be writing poems that matter. To someone. Maybe even to yourself.” Taylor has a softness in her eyes as she says it. Something almost vulnerable, like she’s giving away more than just instructions. There’s a quiet depth in her gaze, like she’s looking through you, not at you. You don’t mean to stare—but you do.

FOCUS.

Taylor clears her throat and straightens her posture. “The textbook is available online through the library,” she says swiftly. “It’s an e-book, but if you don’t want to bother, that’s fine. Honestly, it’s not essential. I’m sure a free PDF is floating around the internet somewhere. Use your best judgment.”

Taylor looks around the classroom—no one’s impressed. You jot down a reminder anyway—even if she says it’s not important, you already know you’ll be reading every word. Twice.

“We’ll begin with Chapter One today.” Swift continues, glancing at her computer. “It’s short. By the end of the week, we’ll be moving into Chapter Two.”

Taylor looks up for some kind of agreement, but the class stays quiet, which she expected. “Let’s start then.”

Class ends on the dot at 10:15.

“Okay, that’s enough for today. Don’t want to make you bored of me just yet,” Taylor says with a smirk.

A few students chuckle—you’re one of them. She’s good at this. Really good. The kind of teacher who makes time pass without you realizing.

She just might’ve unlocked a new obsession in you. Either with poetry... or with her. (We both know which one it is.)

“Before anyone leaves,” Taylor says, glancing down at the papers on her desk, “I’ll be handing out a quick assignment. I want you to write a quatrain—just four lines—from what we covered today.”

She pulls a small stack of handouts from the pile and hands them to the student in the front row. “Pass these back, please. This is due next class. Yes, it’s graded. No exceptions.”Thank you for coming to class, have a great day.” 

As students begin to pack up, Taylor’s already back to sorting her papers, sliding folders into her leather bag.. You start collecting your stuff too, putting your laptop back in your bag along with your notes. 

The paper finally reaches your desk, and just as you’re reaching for it, you notice her looking at you through her lashes. Barely. But enough.

which makes your pulse ticks up.

You’re supposed to speak with her after class. And now… well, it is after class.

Taylor gives one final reminder about the assignment before everyone leaves—a short poem, due next class, no exceptions.

The room gradually empties, voices fading into the hallway. The moment the door clicks shut behind the last student, the room is too quiet now. It’s just you and her.

You wear your bag on your shoulder and slowly walk to where her desk is. You move slower, deliberately slow. You’re not even sure why, but you’re clearly stalling. 

Taylor doesn’t look up until you’re halfway to her desk.

“Hi,” you say awkwardly, raising a hand in a tiny wave.

why. why. WHY.

Swift finally looks up at you, her eyes are so piercing, so blue. It throws you off.

“I’m the nameless girl,” you blurt with a nervous laugh, trying to sound casual. It comes out weird. Of course.

Taylor raises a brow but smiles slightly. “Right. I still have no idea why your name isn’t on the attendance list. I mean… I could write it in manually, but if it’s not in the system, I can’t assign you a grade.”

“Oh.”

“Did you register for the class by yourself? Or did someone do it for you?”

“I did,” you say. “But I did after the enrollment dates, so maybe that’s why…” You trail off. You feel stupid. whatever.

Taylor nods. “That’s probably it. No worries. Just stop by the advisor’s office—they’ll get it sorted. But swing by mine after, so I can check the system and make sure it updates. Okay?”

“Yes ma’am,” you say automatically.

“Great! You’re all done then.” Her once soft smile grows into a smirk.

“Uh also…” You hesitate.

Taylor looks back up. “Yes?”

You clear your throat and say, ““I… just wanted to ask about the quatrain.”

Her brows lift slightly. Curious. All her attention is on you now. “What about the quatrain?”

“I don’t think I’m capable of writing a four-line poem,” you admit. “Can I at least write, like… a two-liner instead?”

You wince, already regretting the question.

For a moment, she says nothing.

You rush to backtrack. “Actually—never mind. I’ll figure it out. I’ll give it a try.” 

But Taylor tilts her head slightly, considering you. The silence stretches, not uncomfortably, but intentionally.

She studies you. Not in a way that feels invasive, exactly—more like she’s reading you the way she might read a poem. Looking for the line break that gives everything else meaning.

“‘Think you can write a couplet?” She finally asks.

“It’s surely easier than a quatrain,” You reply, a sheepish smile creeping in.

Taylor hums faintly, the sound barely audible, but you hear it. “Fine. I’ll make an exception. But only for this assignment.”

“Thank you.” 

She nods once, then presses her books to her chest. “I’ll see you in my office,” she says, voice soft but firm and professional again.

And just like that, she walks past you and out the door, leaving you behind.

After you’re done with your classes, you took your time getting to the advisor’s office, your problem isn’t sorting itself out after all.

Now, you’re walking down the quieter hallway of the English department, clutching a printed enrollment confirmation slip the advisor gave you, you feel that flutter again. Not quite nerves, not quite dread. Something closer to… anticipation.

You check the syllabus again, making sure you’re in the right hallway.

You spot her name on the frosted glass door: T. Swift — Faculty Office 113

Yup, you’re in the right hallway.

You raise your hand to knock. Pause. Then, finally, tap twice, knuckles soft against the door.

“Come in,” Taylor’s voice calls from inside.

You push the door open slowly.

Taylor’s office is exactly what you imagined—warm and controlled. Shelves filled with poetry anthologies and thick academic texts, spines perfectly aligned. A vase of tulips sits on her desk, slightly fading. 

Taylor is at her desk, reading something, blazer tasting behind her on her chair,  glasses perched low on her nose.

Glasses? God help you.

She looks up. “Oh hello,” she says, flipping the book on the desk and straightening her posture.

“The advisor said it’s done. I should be in the system now.”

“Great, let me check you out,” she says confidently, unaware of what other meaning that could hold. 

You being yourself, you chuckle.

“What’s funny?” Taylor raises a brow, looking at you through her glasses.

“Oh nothing.”

“Tell me.” Her voice is more stern. Focused on you.

“You said ‘check you out,’ it’s stupid I know.”

She laughs.

Woah, you made her laugh.

“You’re a funny girl,” she directs her attention back to her computer.

With a couple clicks then, “Ahh! There you are,” she says. “You’re official now. I can grade you.”

“Thank god. I was about to write that couplet for nothing,” you joke.

“I never let good poetry go to waste. Even if it’s unofficial.” She smirks and winks.

She winked. At. You. That doesn’t mean anything… right?

You laugh quietly, then glance around the room, stalling again. “Your office is really nice.”

Just leave.

“I know.” She leans back on her chair, crossing her long legs.

That had no reason to be hot. At all.

“It’s organized,” she replies, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “It has to be. Otherwise, the chaos wins.” A chuckle slips from her mouth.

You nod, chewing your lip. You should leave. You should . And yet…

“Do you—um. Do you remember the first poem you ever wrote?” 

Great, a question .

Taylor looks at you. “I do,” she says softly. “It was terrible.”

“I don’t think you and terrible are supposed to be in the same sentence.” 

You’re flirting, stop that. You can’t do that.

“Oh, but it was,” She laughs and takes off her glasses, covering her face.

“It can’t be that bad…” You get closer to her desk. “Can you tell me what it was?”

Girl, what are you DOING?

She holds your gaze a beat too long. Considering your question for a second, “Anything else you need help with instead of silly questions, miss?” 

She rests her arms on the arm holders. God, what a view.

“No,” you say, but it comes out a little too quietly. A little too fast.

“No?” She pokes her cheek with her tongue. wow.

“Just wanted to make sure I exist.” You absentmindedly take your bottom lip into your mouth.

“Oh, you do,” Taylor’s voice is low. “Trust me.”

“Good.”

Taylor hums as you’re about to leave, “Don’t forget to write your couplet,” she adds.

You open the door. Turn back.

“I won’t,” you said with a wink.

And with that, you shut the door.

Thursday, 8:50 AM.

You’re back in your classroom, the same seat, got your notes ready and all. You’re early again, but not alone this time. Surprisingly, the room was almost full, everyone was chit-chatting, and the classroom was buzzing.

All of a sudden, it all went quiet. 

Taylor’s walks.

Her outfit was formal, similar to the first class, but this time she’s wearing navy pants, and her effortlessly beautiful hair is tucked behind her ears. Her makeup is timeless as always.

“Good morning,” Taylor greets her class as she sets her things down on her desk.

The whole class mumbles a reply, she flashes a smile.

Swift begins to take roll, reading from her updated attendance list—with your name in it this time. When she gets to your name—your actual name this time—she pauses briefly, then glances up at you with a ghost of a smile.

“There you are,” she says. Quiet, but pointed. 

You smile back. Or at least, you try to.

Once she’s done with attendance, she clasps her hands together. “Alright. Quatrains. Or, in one case,” She looks directly at you, “a couplet.”

Some of your classmates look at you, you feel targeted. You awkwardly smile.

Taylor walks around the room, collecting the papers one by one. When she reaches your desk, she stops.

You look up through your lashes and hand her your paper, a little too carefully. Your fingers brush hers for half a second longer than they need to. So do her eyes, just a beat longer than supposed to. You feel your heart flicker.

“I’ll grade them in my office. If you want to check your grade before it’s put on the system, you know where to find me.” Taylor reminds us as she goes back to the front of the room.

She starts clicking through slides on the computer.

“Today, we’re talking about voice,” she continues. “How to make your writing sound like you —even if it’s wrapped in metaphor,” she looks at you.

You open your notebook, pen ready, pretending not to notice the way she sometimes looks your way when she talks about intention, or intimacy, or truth .

But you notice.

Of course you do. How could you not?

You’re now getting the hang of the “voice” you think you’re good at showing your voice in your writing.

Taylor pauses and walks back to her desk, “I want to read one of these aloud, anonymously, of course,” she says, picking up the stack of poems. Flips through them with long, careful fingers.. 

“So that we can hear the rhythm. The tone. And maybe talk about what works.”

Your stomach dips. You don’t want her to read yours. At least not out loud.

Taylor pulls one out from the middle of the stack.

You know it’s yours before she even says a word. It’s folded in half, exactly the way you handed it to her. And she doesn’t even look surprised, she knows it’s yours.

Then she reads it out loud. You try to hide the fact that it’s yours, but it’s hard when Taylor is staring into your soul as she reads it.

Fuck.

There’s a long pause. The class is quiet to the point where you can hear someone’s stomach rumble. You sink slightly into your chair, wanting to escape this moment right now

Taylor glances up at the class, but her eyes flick quickly to you . Just for a moment. Just enough for your heart to stutter.

“That,” she says, folding the paper again with quiet reverence, “is what I mean by honest. ”

She places it gently on top of the pile.

“No names,” she adds, “but whoever wrote that—well done. That’s exactly the kind of emotional precision poetry thrives on.”

No one around you knows. They’re all nodding or scribbling things down or pretending to care. But she knows.

And you know she knows.

Taylor clears her throat, moving on to the lecture. Glances are stolen here and there. You genuinely try to hide it, but she’s too obvious. You can feel her eyes on you while you’re writing something down. 

What is she doing?

“That's it for today,” she ends the lecture, turning off the projector. “I’ll be sending out an email once I’m done grading, but if any of you have any further questions, you can see me in my office during office hours,” she paused. “You can leave now. I’ll see you all next week.”

The class packs up and shuffles to the door, and so do you. But as you leave the room, you take one last look at Miss Swift. Nod your head. Then out.

Today’s probably your busiest day this week. Three classes back-to-back, and one more waiting in just thirty minutes. You’ve barely had time to breathe, let alone think. 

You head to the library to study and catch up on the course. Nothing unusual. You settle into your usual spot by the window, the one with the big desk and the perfect sunlight. You crack open your laptop  and get your notebook ready

Then you hear a familiar voice, you lean back to check it out. 

But that’s when you see her.

Taylor.

She’s standing near the front desk, mid-conversation with the librarian. You nearly do a double take. You've studied here nearly every day since freshman year, and not once have you seen her here. Ever. 

What are the odds?

You watch her as she’s speaking, trying not to stare.

But you're caught anyway.

Great.

Taylor looks over her shoulder and spots you. You blink, panic a little inside, and force a polite smile, raising your hand in an awkward half-wave.

She grins.

Oh no.

She’s walking toward you.

Oh, well fuck.

You straighten up in your seat, trying to look like you weren’t just ogling your professor across the library. 

“Oh, hello you,” Taylor says, her voice comes in. Her voice is soft, a little hoarse. Whispered, because, well, you’re in a library.

And probably from all the lectures she’s been giving today. It’s so hot.

God. Even her voice is hot.

Your mind starts to wander. Inappropriate. Not now.

“Hellooo?” Taylor waves a hand in front of your face, laughing under her breath.

You snap back to life. “Uhm— Hi Miss Swift,” you clear your throat, avoiding voice cracks. “What brings you to the library today?” you ask curiously.

She leans in slightly, whispering, “Well, I don’t usually come here—” 

“I know.”

Taylor double-takes, comprehending what you just said.

Shit.

Her eyebrows lift slightly. “What?”

Your brain stalls. “Uh—I mean—I just never see you here, that’s all. I didn’t mean that in a creepy way.”

Taylor tilts her head, still watching you. Great, she probably thinks you’re weird. You rush to explain.

“I sit here a lot. Like, every day. So, I just—I notice things. Patterns. But not like you patterns. I’m not stalking you. I promise.” You try to save yourself from such a situation, you’re innocent .

“Ohh got you,” Her lips curl into that mischievous grin, the one you’ve started to recognize as dangerous. “Mmm. I wouldn’t mind if you were, though.”

Oh.

Oh?

“Oh really? Great, then I’ll start doing so.” You recover with a raised brow, leaning back in your chair. “Be ready for me.”

“Hmm, I’ll look forward to it,” Taylor hums and passes the vibe you were trying to give.

You both laugh, a cute bonding moment.

“Do you sit here alone every day?” She asks, genuine now, looking around your little workspace.

“Yeah, I come here to study, not to chit chat,” You sarcastically say, rolling your eyes dramatically.

“Well, you’re no fun then,” Taylor pouts,

She’s actually so adorable and hot, it’s unbelievable.

“I can be fun…  just not while studying,” you shrug, defending yourself, grinning.

“Well,” she says, casually resting her hand on the back of the chair across from you, “if you’re ever alone on campus, just come by my office. I’ll teach you how to have fun.” 

She winks.

You freeze. Your brain attempts a rational explanation. 

But. Surely she didn’t mean it like that. Did she? She can’t. That’s… against some kind of rule. Or law. Probably both.

But then she softens again—warm, approachable, her voice gentle.

“No, seriously. If you’re ever bored, I’d love to see you on your break or during office hours. Come by okay?” 

You blink at her, still recovering from whatever she meant a sentence ago. 

you can’t say no .

You nod.“Sure, I’ll make sure to pass by, Miss.” 

She grins. Her eyes flicker like she’s filing this conversation for later.

“Perfect,” she says. “I’ll see ya then!” Louder than she should be in a library. She immediately shushes herself with a mock gasp, laughing as she turns and walks away.

You watch her go.

What did you just agree to?

It’s 2:47 PM.

You just got out of your last class of the day, and exhaustion clings to you like humidity. Your only plan was to stumble back to your dorm and collapse.

But as you head down to exit the building, you have to pass by Miss Swift’s office. You couldn’t help but notice that her office door was not shut completely. That’s weird… office hour ended an hour ago? Is she still there?

You slow down, and let your curiosity take over you.

You decided to investigate. Was that a great move? Probably not. You still did it anyway.

You get closer to the door, knocking on it, “Miss Swift?” 

No answer.

You hesitate—just long enough to remind yourself this is a terrible idea—then push the door open a little more and step inside.

You leave the door a little open for an easy way out—you weren’t gonna be there for a while.

Her office is just as you remember it from your last visit—warm lighting, books piled everywhere in beautiful disarray. You’re a bookworm, you were curious about what her interests are, and what she is reading. 

God, she has so many books. 

Your eyes fall to her desk. A book sits there, face down. 

Devotion - by Patti Smith

Of course. That makes too much sense.

You carefully pick the book up, reading some lines on the page she was on. 

Hmm, interesting, you’ll definitely read about it back home.

You place the book back exactly where it was. 

We don’t want any evidence of anyone being here, do we now?

You walk off to the shelves next to her desk. Dragging your finger across the spines—poetry, philosophy, feminist theory, more poetry. Then, something catches your eye.

It’s not a book.

It’s a journal. Small. Soft cover.

You shouldn’t..

You open on the first page, “Taylor’s Journal ” Written in careful cursive, surrounded by little star doodles.

What a cutie.

You flip to the next page.

A poem.

“In summation”

“In summation, it was not a love affair!”
I screamed while bringing my fists to my coffee ringed desk
It was a mutual manic phase.
It was self harm.
It was house and then cardiac arrest.”

This is beautiful.

You continue reading..

“and so I enter into evidence
My tarnished coat of arms
My muses, acquired like bruises
My talismans and charms
The tick, tick, tick of love bombs
My veins of pitch black ink

All’s fair in love and poetry
Sincerely,
The Chairman
of The Tortured Poets Department”

“Like what you read?”

The voice slices through the silence like a blade.

You jumped in your place, a lower-case scream leaving your mouth.

“JESUS!” You gasp, hand flying to your chest. Your heart is hammering so hard it might actually eject itself from your body.

Taylor is standing just inside the door now, laughing softly—her arms crossed, her head tilted. There’s a wicked glint in her eyes, and that signature smirk on her lips.

“What are you doing here?” she asks through a chuckle.

“What are you?” You blurt, not really realizing what you just said.

Her brows shoot up in amused surprise. “What am I—? This is my office,” she replies with a light laugh. 

“Right,” you mumble, cheeks going warm. “Sorry. You scared me.”

“Well, sorry for walking into my own office,” she teases. “You’re the intruder here.” 

She steps further into the room and gently closes the door behind her. The soft click echoes in the quiet space like a gavel. She starts walking toward you—slow, deliberate, and suddenly the room feels small. Too small.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice is now low and raspy.

You take a step back. “I was just… passing by,” you gulp, genuinely not having any excuses.

“Passing by?” she repeats, amused. Her voice is lower now, more intimate—tinged with something you can’t quite name. “And you just happened to wander in?”

You ask quickly, hoping to change the subject. “Why did you read my poem out loud in class today?” 

Phew. saved yourself.

Or so you thought.

She shrugs casually. “It caught my attention.”

She’s close now—so close, her presence is almost disorienting. She leans in slightly, and she lowers herself to your height, and you feel her breath on your cheek.

“I think this belongs to me, yeah?” he murmurs, taking the journal gently from your hands. She places it back on the shelf.

“Sorry.”

Taylor turns to face you again. She studies your expression for a long beat, then asks quietly,  “Why are you here? Tell me the truth, I won’t bite.”

Her smirk deepens, and her voice makes it hard to think.

“I was just… Curious.” You admit softly.   “That’s all.”

“Good girl,” she murmurs, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Her fingers are feather-light against your skin, and suddenly your entire body feels like it’s vibrating.

“Was that hard to admit now?” She adds, still holding your gaze.

You nervously shake your head. Heart pounding.

What the fuck is going on.

Taylor narrows her eyes just a bit. “Wanted to read my stuff?” 

You nod.

“Take a seat.” 

“No, it’s fi–”

“I said, take a seat.” 

There’s no room for debate in her tone.

You sit.

You don’t hesitate to do as told. She has that effect on you. Commanding, magnetic, impossible to resist.

“Now, why are you all stiff? Loosen up, baby, get comfortable.”

baby?

BABY.

Calm down. Stay focused.

You adjust yourself to the seat, leaning down against it. Resting your hands on the armrests like it’s no big deal.

“Feel better?” She asks, her voice smooth.

You nod.

She hums in response.

Then Taylor goes to one of her other shelves, looking for something. You can’t help but watch every single move she makes.

“Where is it…” She mutters under her breath, bending down to check the lower shelves.

You nearly stop breathing.

Finally, she pulls out an old, weathered notebook.

“Ah. There it is.”

You squeeze your legs harder together. 

She walks back over to you, flipping carefully through the fragile pages.

“You wanted to know what my first poem was, correct?”

You nod, again—your voice seems to have abandoned you.

She starts walking to you, opening an old-looking journal and getting out a small piece of paper. 

“If I’m not mistaken, I wrote this poem when I was…. Twelve? Yeah,” She hands it to you, her fingers brushing yours.

You felt electricity in that touch.

“Smiling in the sunlight,
Her eyes were open wide,
A kind and thankful mother,
Was sitting at her side.

Her head was full of wonder,
Her heart was full of love,
This baby must be what God called,
A gift from up above.

With skin as soft as satin,
And wonders of the world,
Unique and special she will be,
A lovely, gentle girl.

I thank God now for making her,
And with the world he’ll share,
A precious little angel,
With the name of Lindsey Claire!”

“I wrote this for my fifth-grade teacher,” Taylor says softly, her eyes skimming the paper you’re holding. “She was pregnant at the time… and she named her daughter Lindsey Claire.”

“Wow.”

“What?” she laughs gently, catching the look on your face.

“I’m twenty-two years old and still can’t write like that,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. It makes you feel small, in the presence of someone who has always known how to translate the world into words.

Taylor walks over and lifts herself up onto the edge of her desk, right above you, knees brushing close to yours. Her posture is casual, but her eyes are fixed on you, watching carefully.

“Your couplet was very good,” she says, smiling. “I was  very impressed, actually.”

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “It’s terrible.”

Taylor lets out a short laugh. “Well, I , a poetry teacher-”

“A poet ,” you interrupt her, looking up from behind your fingers. “You’re more than just a teacher.”

“-think it was beautiful,” she admits.

You take your hands completely off your face, finally brave enough to meet her gaze. “I’ve read what you wrote,” you say, voice lighter now. “About being the chairman of some dead, tortured society department—thingy.”

Taylor blinks, then lets out a genuine laugh—one that starts in her chest and spills easily from her mouth. It’s raspy, a little husky from all the talking she’s done today. “Oh god,” she shakes her head. “You read that entry?”

“You left your journal in plain sight. I was just being… academically curious.”

She narrows her eyes at you in mock offense. “Right, by entering my office without permission and snooping into my stuff.” Crossing her arms to her chest, “And now we’re calling that research?”

“Poetic research,” you correct her with a smirk on your face, leaning back in the chair just slightly. “You said you wouldn’t bite.” You raise your brows, you’re teasing .

Taylor hums, playful again. “I said I won’t bite. Not that I can’t .”

You freeze for half a second.

Her gaze flickers down to your lips, just for a second, and back up to your eyes. You don’t miss it. She doesn’t bother pretending.

Her eyes study you. Really study you.

“Did you like it?” She asks, absentmindedly taking her bottom lip between her lips. You can feel her legs shift slightly on the desk where she’s perched, knees now lightly brushing against yours, it

makes your pulse jump.

You take a few seconds to respond, “I think I did,” you admit. “

She smiles again, slower this time. Then she leans forward, bracing her hands on either side of her on the desk—bringing her face closer to yours. Not quite in your space, but close enough to make your breath catch.

“You think you did?” she teases, her voice soft but sultry, a near whisper.

“I liked it,” you correct yourself quickly, your voice barely above a whisper. 

Taylor hums, low and pleased at your answer. She leans in a touch closer, her eyes flicker to your lips. Again .

“That’s better,” she says, her knees part just slightly more around yours, not by accident—you’re sure of it now. You feel the air tighten. You swallow, trying to keep your focus, but she’s so close. You can smell her perfume—soft, woody, clean, she’s all that you can breathe—she’s intoxicating.

Silence…

Then Taylor finally speaks, her voice like silk and smoke. “You’re going to be late for wherever you were headed.”

“Uh no— I’m- I was going home.” You murmur, unable to speak properly anymore. It’s embarrassing. 

“I’m not late,” you manage to add, as if that helps.

Taylor nods slowly, her gaze never leaving yours. “Maybe it’s better if you stay a little longer.” She takes a step closer, deliberately slow.

You raise your brows slightly, trying to read her expression—but there’s that glint again. The kind that curls into a smirk, the kind that knows exactly what it’s doing.

“So I can show you more poems,” she says sweetly. “Of course.”

“Of course,” you echo her words, your voice lower now, matching her tone without even realizing it.

Taylor steps down from the desk completely now, fixing her posture, pine straight, presence commanding.

“Oh, and by the way,” she adds, brushing imaginary dust from her sleeve, “you’re in biiiiig trouble for entering my office. And snooping through my stuff.”

“What?” you gasp, eyes wide, your body locking up for a moment. “That’s not fair, the door was left open—”

“And you walked in. And touched my very private journal.” She quirks a brow, arms crossing beneath her chest. “Why are you acting shocked? As if you didn’t totally invade someone’s personal

space and dig through their things.”

Her tone is teasing, but there’s a thin layer of something darker beneath it—something alluring. A spark that feels like it could burn if you got too close… or if you didn’t get close enough.

You shift your weight, pulse thudding in your neck. “Okay, fine. Guilty. So… how do I get myself out of trouble?”

Taylor hums, dragging a finger across her lower lip in mock thought. “Hmm…” Her eyes sweep over you again, far too slowly. “There might be a way I could make your punishment… less terrible.”

The smirk she gives you after that? Lethal .

“Which is?” you ask, voice dry, lips parting. You can barely breathe.

“I haven’t decided yet, to be honest,” she murmurs sarcastically, voice dipping low again. “But I’ll let you in on a secret…” She steps closer, close enough now that your knees nearly touch again. “I tend to go easy on students who… impress me.”

Taylor’s hand reaches to tuck a hair behind your ear. “And right now,” she adds, leaning in more, “you’re doing just fine .”

Your body is on fire, every nerve lit and waiting. It feels like the space between you could ignite with just a breath.

“So,” she whispers, “are you going to sit there and behave…”

Taylor stands directly in front of you now, her presence all-consuming. She extends her hand in a wordless invitation. You take it without hesitation, and she pulls you up to your feet—slow, deliberate, steady. Her hands settle at your waist, fingers cool against the heat of your body. The contrast sends a shiver down your spine. You inhale sharply, her lips just a breath away from yours, eyes burning through you.

“Or are you going to earn your forgiveness?” her voice just above whisper, low and dark.

She doesn’t move an inch. She just waits , patient and predatory, waiting for your response, which is taking an embarrassingly long amount of time to be answered.

“Forgiveness…” you whisper, a pitiful little whine slipping from your throat. You should be embarrassed by how desperate you sound—but you’re not. Not with her. “Please.”

Her eyes spark with something electric. “Oh? We’re begging now?” she teases, her grin growing devilishly slow. 

Her fingers slide up your sides, then trail along your collarbone as she gently pushes your hair to one side, baring your neck. And then, her mouth is right there —her warm breath against your skin, your pulse pounding underneath, you’re weak to your knees.

“How badly do you wanna be forgiven, baby?” she murmurs, her voice barely a sound now. “Tell me.” Her lips graze the soft, sensitive skin just beneath your ear, planting the lightest, cruelest kiss. You squeeze your eyes shut, swallowing the moan that claws at your throat.

“Really bad,” You whisper, breathless.

She pulls back enough to look at you, eyes sparkling wickedly. “I can see that,” she smirks. “So sweet when you’re needy for me.”

Then her expression shifts, just slightly—softening. “Can I kiss you?” she asks, voice low, intimate. Her eyes finally meet yours, grounding you in that moment. You weren’t expecting that. Fuck it was hot . 

Consent is so hot.

“Please…” you breathe out, already leaning into her.

“Knew you’d let me,” she whispers, her gaze locked on your mouth now. “I’ll be gentle, pretty girl.”

She finally kisses you.

Her lips are warm, soft, and searching. It’s slow at first, careful, like she’s memorizing the shape of your mouth, savoring it. One hand curls around the back of your neck, anchoring you in place, while the other stays firm on your waist, pulling you against her.

The kiss deepens—her lips moving with more urgency, more need. You melt into it, hands fisting into the fabric of her blouse, anchoring yourself in her scent, her taste, her presence. You swallow a moan that’s fighting its way out of your throat.

Taylor’s breath hitches ever so slightly as she pulls back from you. Her gaze never leaves your eyes once. She’s taking off your top, tossing it somewhere on the floor. Her hands take no time to explore your exposed figure.

“God…” you manage to breathe out. “I need you, Miss Swift.”

That was Taylor’s invite. 

“I know you do, baby,” She murmurs against your jaw between kisses.

“I’ll make you feel good.” She grabs one of your breasts, massaging it. 

You moan.

She hums in approval once you moan , “How’s that baby?”

“So good.” You let your head fall back with a moan.

Taylor flips you around, pushing you against the desk. You gasp once your lower back hits the object.

Her hands reach down where your hips meet, until they reach your waistband, unzipping your jeans and lowering them down as she doesn’t break eye contact. She moves her finger across the hem of your underwear.

She rests her hands on your thighs. “Can I touch you, baby?” she’s whispering in your ear, knowing she’s teasing.

“You already are.” You roll your hips against her, her hands are so close yet so far. 

Her hand slides down your stomach and slips between your hips. She presses it against your clothed pussy.

“Here?” She bites your neck as she asks, her tongue licks the spot afterwards

You moan.

Taylor whispers a second question into your ear, “Is that a yes? I need you to speak for me.” 

You move your hips against her hand, trying to find any friction to satisfy you. “Yes, please.” You attempt to stifle a moan but fail terribly.

She slips a hand under your underwear and drags a long finger of hers along your slit, finding you soaked and ready for her. “My god, baby, you’re soaked.”

Your hands find their way to the edge of the desk, gripping the life out of it. 

“Please.” You’re pathetically begging. No shame. You need her, and you need her now.

Her finger circles around your clit, teasing you and igniting the fire that’s been slowly building up inside of you. “All that just for me?” she asks with a pout on her lip. 

“Did all that teasing get you worked up, sweetheart?” her finger looses rhythm tracing circles up and down your slit, you grind your hips harder against her.

Honest to god, if she asks one more question.

You just nod. A whimper leaving your mouth.

“Now, what you did was really, really bad.” Taylor takes your lower lip between her teeth, then runs his tongue over it. “You shouldn’t enter your professor’s offices without permission, baby.”

Taylor takes off her coat and throws it on one of the chairs.

“Wanna know what I’ll be doing to you? For bad girls like you?” She asks as her finger drifts down to tease at your entrance. Then back to your clit.

“I’m gonna eat you out on my desk here, but of course, I won’t be very nice about it.” 

Taylor pulls her hand from between your legs , and puts the finger that was once on you in her mouth—sucking your residue and moaning faintly at your taste.

You gasp at the loss of contact. Looking down to see her kneeling at the edge of her desk, she takes your knees and slowly pushes them apart, making way for her to fit.

Her mouth trails hot kisses along your bare thigh, and when she’s close to you where you want her most, and she can see your pussy glistening. She goes to your other thigh, giving it the same amount of attention.

“Tay- Miss, please,” you whine through a faint whimper.

“You can call me Taylor, sweetheart.” Taylor giggles, she ghosts a long finger of hers over your wet pussy. 

Your hips twitch up in response to her touch, and she smiles at the reaction, and slides a finger down your sticky slit, pushing her finger knuckle deep and her thumb find your clit, brushing against it and eliciting a desperate moan from you. 

“Did all that teasing get you worked up, sweetheart?” Taylor’s smile is permanent on her face, while she lazily pounds her finger in and out of you. 

Your back arches and your hips roll up to meet her hand, needing more.

“Taylor...” You moan out as she reaches for your climax. “More, please.” You’re not above begging at this point; you need her on you.

“Good girl, asking so nicely,” she smiles against your thigh, dragging her tongue up your thigh, until her mouth finally reaches where you need her the most. 

“Fuck…” You throw your head back and arch your back. Pushing yourself upward with your elbows, but your arms are getting weaker.

“Language,” Taylor squeezes your thigh, and mumbles against your pussy, the vibrations sending you to a whole level of pleasure. Her mouth ignites the flames in your body, and her tongue lights the matches.

Taylor’s light suction, her lips wrapped around your clit, and you cry out in a broken moan as she makes you see stars. She pulls her finger out of you, and her tongue dips inside of you, stroking, curling, drawing all of your pleasure out of you.

One of your hands grips the edge of the desk, knuckles turning white, while the other one pulls her hair closer against you. Your hips roll against her mouth as she drives you closer and closer to what you need.

Taylor moans at your taste, sending vibrations against you. And your eyes roll to the back of your head, and you tug her hair even harder. With the arch of your back, you raise your hips against her mouth. You’re so close. 

“Right there-” Your words are cut off by a moan as she sucks on your clit and that sends you over the edge with a loud cry. 

Taylor places her hand on your mouth, trying to muffle the sound, you’re still inside the university. She leads you through your orgasm, licking every drop of pleasure your body just leaked out, dragging every last moment out, until the pressure and over-stimulation against your clit is too much.

You stare down at Taylor between your legs as she’s pulling away from you, smiling through her lashes, she runs her tongue down her bottom lip, gathering up anything she can, and you look shamelessly at the bob of her Adam's apple as she gulps down every drop.

Holy fuck. You just let your professor eat you out. On her desk. At university.

You’re still gasping for air, sitting yourself on your elbows upright, Taylor goes and gets some tissues from one of her drawers. She helps you clean up and wipes away any remaining rivulets of cum. She tosses the tissues into a nearby bin, her gaze never leaving yours. 

“I think you’re trouble,” she murmurs, her voice low and sultry, one corner of her mouth lifting. You can't help but blush, your heart still racing. 

You sit up straighter, trying to catch your breath, trying to collect whatever’s left of your composure. It’s not much. "That was all you," you defend yourself, but the smirk on her lips says otherwise. “I was just curious, you’re the one who ate me out.”

Taylor hums as she’s fixing her lipstick, her smirk deepening. “Yeah, well, curiosity gets people in trouble.”

“Yeah, I noticed!” you say, trying to get off her desk, but your legs are still shaky, so she helps you down. 

“There you go, sweetheart,” she says, her voice low and teasing. You feel a blush creeping up your neck as you steady yourself. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice before asking so many questions.”

You shoot her a half-hearted glare, still breathless. “You didn’t exactly discourage me to stop asking them.”

Taylor shrugs with a devilish glint in her eye. “No, I didn’t.”

She tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “You look pretty like this.”

“Post-fucked?” You ask a genuine question while trying to hide a chuckle.

She laughs out loud, covering her face with her hand. “Yeah.” 

Taylor steps closer, her hand tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, her touch feather-light but deliberate, while the other hand is on your waist.

“I should-”

“You should probably get going,” Taylor says quickly, almost tripping over your words. She clears her throat, though her hand doesn’t leave your waist.

“Yep…” You awkwardly nod your head.

She slowly drags her hand down your waist, finding your hand, holding it as she starts to walk you out, her other hand brushing against the small of your back—barely there, but it sets your nerves alight again.

You pause before stepping out, glancing back at her. She looks composed… too composed, like she hadn’t just seen stars a few minutes ago.

“Office hours tomorrow?” you ask, almost teasingly.

Taylor leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, that signature smirk still painted on her somehow still perfectly red lips. “Only if you promise to misbehave again.”

You shrug, pulse skipping all over again. “No promises.”

And with that, you walk away—legs still weak, heart still racing, and cheeks still warm.

But one thing is for certain, you’re definitely coming back tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Ever since what happened in Miss Swift’s office, Taylor’s , you couldn’t think straight. (literally) .

You’d been to her office hours a few times since that night. She let you in. Let you stay. And each time, it felt like she revealed another layer of herself. She showed you more of her writing—poems inked in looping cursive, tucked inside a leather-bound notebook she usually kept locked away in her desk drawer. She told you about The Tortured Poets Department —who was in it. Professor Jack. Aaron. A few more names whispered like secrets. She invited you into her world, piece by piece.

And you knew better.

You knew better than to catch feelings for your professor.

You definitely knew better than to let her fuck you in her office.

It was reckless. Dangerous. Illegal , even. The kind of thing that could get you expelled… or get her fired.

But no matter how many times you tried to reason with yourself, you couldn’t turn it off.

Because when you look at her—really look at her, you don’t see your teacher. You see the way she bites her pen when she is thinking. The way her voice drops when she reads your writing. The way she’d linger on certain poems as if they still hurt her.

You couldn’t ignore the pull. 

The way she makes you feel seen, even in the quiet. The way she unravels you, by word, by touch. You’re way too deep in the smoke. And for once, you don’t want to come up for clean air.

But here you were anyway, walking to class with a grin that hit the door before you did. Your stomach fluttered at the thought of seeing her again. It was like your body didn’t get the memo that this was dangerous—your heart was too busy racing.

You settled into your usual seat spot. Your headphones are blasting in your ears. Pretending to be cool, calm, and unbothered. You weren’t. You were counting the seconds to see her.

The classroom slowly filled, and then—there she was.

Miss Swift stepped through the door like a scene change in a movie. Her hair was sleek and straight, tucked behind her ears, she did a thing with her bangs, a swoop moment; you liked it. 

She wore a matching plaid tweed set—coat and mini skirt—and a pair of sharp, pointed black heels that clicked authoritatively against the floor. Everyone turned to look. Of course they did. Her presence demanded it.

“Hello, class,” she said, flashing a polite smile as she made her way to the desk. She set down her shoulder bag, her laptop, a stack of books, and notebooks.

But the moment she was settled, her eyes swept the room until they landed on you.

Your heart almost stopped beating. Her stare is so intense.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. The corner of her mouth curved—just slightly—and in that second, the room seemed to shrink to just the two of you.

“So in today’s class,” she said, sliding off her coat and draping it over her chair, revealing the full curve of her hips beneath the skirt, “we’re going to be working on an in-class assignment.” Her voice was smooth, unbothered, like she wasn’t slowly undoing you with every word. 

She reached into her bag and pulled out a folder, Pulls out a thick stack of papers.“Pass these back,” she said to the student in the front row, before glancing at you again—just briefly.

“The assignment is…” She goes to the whiteboard and writes: 

In-Class Assignment: "Forbidden Love"

“I want you guys to write a poem exploring your desires,” her eyes ghost over yours for a second before continuing, “temptations.  Focus on emotion, imagery, and metaphor. Minimum: 14 lines.”

She turned back to face the class, arms crossed lightly, her eyes scanning the room like she already knew whose imagination would run too far. 

Yours.

“This will be a personal piece, i’ll only have access to read it, so don’t get scared to truly express yourselves.” 

Taylor walks to her desk, sits down, and opens her laptop, typing on it.

As you write she adds, “also don’t forget to write your names so that i can grade them.”

A few minutes passed. You stared down at your blank page, trying to steady your thoughts, but all you could think about was her voice in your ear scolding you as she eats you out alive… your fingers gripping the edge of that desk… the way she whispered your name like it was a secret only she was allowed to know. It’s so hard. So hard for you to focus.

You blinked, realizing she'd begun walking down the rows.

Fuck.

She paused beside you, just for a second, leaning close enough that her sandalwood perfume wrapped around your senses.

“Time’s ticking y’know?” She murmured under her breath, teasing you. 

You looked up at her, lips parted, breath caught in your throat.

“Yeah i know.” finally your voice decided to respond.

She was already walking away, checking on the next student, her expression composed, unreadable.

You stare down at the paper again. The pen tremble slightly in your hand. You bite the cap, hard plastic pressing into your lip as you fightt the swirl of thoughts taking over your head.

Taylor.

You think about the stolen glances across the classroom. The lingering warmth whenever her fingers brushed yours while handing back a paper. Tthe way her hand brushed against yours when returning assignments. 

She was your muse, whether she liked it or not.

Your pulse quickens. The words spills out of you like a confession, each sentence drawing you closer to the raw, forbidden truth you hadn’t said aloud: She inspires you. She undoes you. She ruins you just by existing.

You pictured her reading it—first with that infuriating composure, then with her mouth parted slightly, her mask slipping for just a second. The shift. The unraveling. The need. 

Focus.

“Alright everyone, please place your papers here on the desk before you leave. Thank you,” Miss Swift said, clapping her hands once like punctuation. The conductor, as always.

You hesitated.

The class was buzzing with end-of-period chatter. You stood, the folded paper heavy in your hands. Then—impulsively—you packed it away, slipping your bag over your shoulder. She was distracted, talking to another student. You slipped out unnoticed.

Heart pounding, you made your way to the library.

In your usual corner, you rewrote the entire assignment. Something bland. Safe. But the original—your poem, your truth—you kept it tucked in your notebook like a secret too personal to throw away.

Later, in the middle of your last class, playing the dinosaur game on your laptop, a notification popped up on your screen: 

From: Swift. T

Subject: Paper

CC: You forgot to hand me your paper. Could we discuss it in person? Office hours or after.

Oh.

Just one line. Formal. She’s so professional.

Still—your stomach flipped.

After class, you found yourself outside her office. Lights dim. Blinds drawn. Like before. Like always. The air already knew you. The scent of her—warm sandalwood. The air was still, thick. Familiar.

You knocked.

“Come in,” she said from inside. That voice, low and calm, cut right through you.

You stepped in.

Taylor was at her desk, her glasses on her face, pen in hand, writing something in one of her leather-bound journals. Her handwriting—blue ink, looping cursive—always looked like it belonged in another century.

She didn’t look up right away.

Then finally, she closes the journal. Deliberate. Slow. And raises her gaze to yours.

That same damn smirk.

You swallow.

The familiar scent of her diffuser and her sandalwood perfume wrapping around you, intoxicating. You can’t help but remember how the scent of her stuck onto you the whole day, the smell of her, and the sex. God, that orgasm that she gave you was the best orgasm of your life. She was so good, you remember the softness of her hands on your thighs, her warm mouth kissing you along as she went, the warmth of her finger was thrusting in and out while her tongue was drawing your-

Slow down. Retreat.

“Have a seat,” she says, nodding toward the chair across from her desk.

You settle into the comfy chair, crossing your legs, trying to play it cool. But you could feel the thrum beneath your skin. Your heartbeat in your throat.

She doesn’t waste time.

“Why didn’t you hand me your paper?” she asked, her tone smooth but sharp.

You blinked. “I—didn’t have time to finish it...”

Her eyes didn’t move from yours. “You expect me to believe that?”

You paused. Looked away.

“I wrote something else,” you admitted. “At first. But I… wasn’t ready to give it to you.”

Taylor leans back slightly, folding her arms.

“You’re not the first student who’s tried to stall. But you are the first who’s acted like their paper might burn my hands.”

You glance down at your bag, then back at her. “It was personal.”

“Great, that’s what i asked for.”

You hesitated again. Then, you reach into your bag and pull out the original paper—the folded one, still creased from the classroom.

Wordlessly, you slide it across the desk.

She doesn’t open it right away.

“Are you sure?” she asks, voice softer now. Almost careful.

You nod.

She looks at you for a long beat, then finally unfolds it.

The silence stretches between you, charged. You watch her eyes move across the lines—slow, steady, unreadable at first. But then her mouth parts slightly—just how you pictured in your head. Her brow twitches, just once. She reaches the end and looks up, back at you.

“That’s…” She doesn’t finish the sentence.

You wait, breath caught.

“You wrote about me, ” she says finally.

You nod, quietly.

You both go quiet for a second, then you decide to break the silence, “So… say something, please.”

“I-it’s beautiful, I’m speechless.”

The words settle between you like a litting match. Then she exhales and folds the paper again, slower this time. Her voice drops into something low, serious, something closer to truth.

“Did you like it?”  you ask, voice quieter than you intended, patient.

She doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers trace the edge of the folded paper, almost absentmindedly. Then she nods.

"I did," she says, and it's not just the words—it’s the way she says them. Soft, deliberate. Like the truth tastes bittersweet in her mouth.

You exhale slowly, the tension in your chest loosening just slightly. But not all the way. Not yet.

Silence.

“It’s dangerous.” Her voice is very low and steady.

“I know.” Your voice is faint, unsteady.

“You’re going to ruin me,” she says.

Another silence. But this time, it feels different.

Taylor gets up from her chair and walks over to you, bending down to be the same height as you, standing up, but towering over you.

“If I touch you again,” she whispers, “there’s no going back.” Her lips part as she stares into your lips, eyes exploding.

You don’t move. “Then don’t touch me unless you’re sure… about this.”

She stares at you. The air between you tightens like a held breath.

Then, finally, finally —her hand lifts.

And she touches your cheek.

Light as a feather.

“I’m not sure,” she whispers. “But I want to be.”

And with that, she takes your face into her hands and smashes your heads against each other. Like she’s never touched anyone the way she touched you.

Your mouth is parted slightly as you let out a soft moan, giving her tongue access to explore you.

“Tay–”

“Shush.”

Her hands are now all over you. Trying to find a way to touch your skin underneath all of the clothing articles you’re wearing.

“Off. Now,” Taylor tugs on your jeans. God, she’s so needy.

“H-here..?” You’re scared that someone might come in on you guys; the door isn’t locked, and you can’t risk having sex in her office… Again.

Taylor kisses along your jawline up toward your ear. She whispers against the shell of your ear, “Mhmm, right now, come on baby,” oh my god she’s whining???

You’re about to respond when you hear a knock on the door. 

“Professor Swift? It’s Jack. Are you in here?”

A man’s voice mumbled something on the other side of the door. Mr jack? Oh, your music teacher from last semester.

Wait. Fuck.

“Yes! Give me a second!” Taylor almost immediately yells out, pushing herself off of you and fixing her appearance—her lipstick was smeared and a mess.

You look at her all rushy and decide to get up.

“No. Stay,” she whispers.

“What?”

“Play along.”

She goes to and sits in her desk, sits in it, puts on her glasses, and in a second, she turns into Professor Swift. “Come in! Jack,” she yells

The door opens, and you’re met with Professor Jack Antonoff, music teacher, intern of the tortured poets department. 

“Oh- well hello there!” Mr Jack waves at you, his voice high-pitched. 

You wave back at him, “Hii..” you softly mumbled out, still caught in the moment, Taylor was just on you, basically.

“You were with me last spring… right?” he furrows his brows, pointing at you.

“Yeah, yeah, I was.”

“Great, great.”

It’s awkward.

“Sorry, Tay, I didn’t think you’d have company at this hour. I’ll see you later-” he’s rushing out the door before Taylor interrupts him.

“No, no, it’s okay, we’re finishing up anyway.” Taylor looks at Jack, then at you, and you look confused as ever. She scribbles something on a piece of note it and gives it to you.

It had her phone number and a “library, now, TEXT ME!!!” note.

You giggle, give her a nod, then get up to leave. 

“I’ll get going now..!” You announce and leave them alone in the room, “Thank you for helping me out… on this poem, Miss Swift.” You waited for Mr Jack to look away to give Taylor a wink.

Taylor holds in a laugh, “Yeah, no problem, anytime,” and waves goodbye at you.

A few hours passed, you’re back home, lying on your comfy couch, in your comfy pajamas, scrolling on your phone, when you remembered Taylor gave you her number. Shit. 

You darted into your room, heart already racing, and tore through the mess you swore you'd clean up three days ago. Jacket. You’d stuffed the little folded square into the pocket of your jacket. 

You unfolded the paper, fingers trembling just a bit. Her handwriting—elegant, slanted—stared back at you. You opened your phone and typed it in.

You (4:32)

Hey, it’s me.

You barely had time to lock your phone before it starts buzzing in your hand.

Unknown number (4:32)

Look who finally decided to text me.

My favorite student!!! 😽😽

You grin, heat crawling up your neck.

You (4:32)

Oh stop it 🙈🙈

You’re gonna get me in trouble…

Unknown number (4:33)

Oh baby

I think we’re already past trouble.

You swallow hard, but your fingers move before your doubt could stop you.

You (4:33)

You’re not wrong…

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about your poems.

Miss Swift 👩‍🏫 (4:34)

You mean the ones you weren’t supposed to see?

Or the ones I let you see? 😉

You (4:34 PM)

Both.

They’re beautiful. Like you.

Bold.

Taylor's typing bubbles appeared. Then disappeared. Then reappeared.

Miss Swift 👩‍🏫 (4:36)
Careful. Flattery might just earn you an invitation.

You (4:36 PM)
Is that a promise?

A pause.

Miss Swift 👩‍🏫 (4:36)

Want to come over to mine for wine later?

Your breath hitched. You could feel your pulse quicken, the blood rushing to your face.

Oh, my god?

Your phone buzzes again, after a minute of bubbles appearing and disappearing.

Miss Swift 👩‍🏫 (4:36)

That’s if you drink wine, of course. If not, that’s completely fine and understandable.

You’re not really much of a drinker. But this meet-up isn’t really going to be about wine…

You (4:37)

Yeah, I do.

I like wine.

Bold-faced lie. But it’ll be worth it.

Another message came through instantly.

Miss Swift 👩‍🏫 (4:37)

Good.

I have a bottle of Sancerre that's been calling your name.

You didn’t even know what continent that was from. But you play along.

You (4:37)

Sounds fancy. I’m intrigued.

Miss Swift 👩‍🏫 (4:38)
It is. 

And you should be.

This wasn’t a date.

But it also wasn’t not one.

Miss Swift 👩‍🏫 (4:38)

Come over at 7.

Don’t be late.

You (4:38)

🫡

Address?

Taylor sends you her address, and you waste no time jolting off the couch like your body knew something important was about to happen—like your skin already missed hers.

You get in the shower, you take everything shower. You shave—everywhere. Exfoliate with your vanilla sugar scrub until your skin feels like satin. You stand under the hot water until you’re dizzy with heat and nerves.

An hour later, you’re moisturized, lotioned, and walking out of the bathroom glowing and wrapped in a towel.

You blow out your hair, carefully brushing through every section. For makeup, you keep it soft—glowy. Not too much. A little mascara, lip balm, a bit of blush— to make you look alive and presentable. 

You go to your closet and stare at it. You rifled through your closet, tossing options on the bed. Too casual. Too desperate. Too much skin. Not enough skin. Too much like someone who’s trying to seduce their professor in a movie .

What do you even dress for your poetry professor who’s read your poetry, and ate you out on her office desk?

You finally land on something, a clean, fitted black dress that hugs your figure in all the right ways. Simple, but effective. Comfortable but flattering. You pair it with classic black pumps. Underneath, you choose a matching red lingerie, just in case. 

Not that you were planning on anything happening. You weren’t. 

(Not that anything was going to happen tonight. You weren’t thinking about that. Obviously. Not at all. But you absolutely were.)

You spray your signature vanilla perfume. The one people always stop you on the street to compliment.

The one you hope will linger on her sheets.

anyways…

7:05 PM

You reach her house and park outside, second-guessing if it’s okay. She didn’t say not to. Your palms are sweating. Your stomach’s somersaulting. You knock three times.

Silence… then soft, unhurried footsteps.

You fix your hair right as the door opens.

“Oh hello,” Taylor opens the door, a wine glass in her hand, eyes drinking you in slowly, greedily. “You look… good.”

Her voice lowers on the last word like it means more than it should

“Uhm—thank you,” you softly giggle, trying to act cool, but your heart’s pounding loud enough for her to hear.

She steps aside and gestures for you in. “Come on in.”

You do.

She’s barefoot. 

What the hell. She’s so tall even without her heels.

Her Hair casually swept into a loose twist. Her loungewear top is sliding down one shoulder, revealing the soft curve of her collarbone—and the top swell of her left boob.

Jesus.

You try not to stare. You fail. She notices.

Her house is dim, minimalist. Hardwood floors, shelves of books stacked beside vintage records, dim golden light glowing from mismatched lamps. Everything smells like sandalwood, lavender; it’s a little intoxicating. Just like her.

You swallow hard.

“You started drinking without me?” Your voice comes out a little too high-pitched.

“I was beginning to think you’d stand me up,”  she teases, not turning around. She’s walking toward the kitchen.

“I was five minutes late,” you argue, following behind. “There was traffic. And, fine—I may have circled the neighborhood twice…”

Taylor grabs a bottle from there, a glass, “Should’ve texted. I would’ve talked you through it.”

“Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” you tease back. Two can play this game.

Taylor giggles, then pours you a glass, then levels hers as well. As she hands it to you, her fingers brush yours. The contact is electric. Stupidly intimate.

She leads you into the living room, gesturing toward the couch. You sit, perching at the edge with your glass, trying to look casual even though every cell in your body is screaming.

Taylor settles beside you. Her thigh brushes yours. She doesn’t move it.

You take a glance around her living room, trying to ground yourself. Then your eyes catch the cluster of picture frames on the shelf across from you — warm, curated moments frozen in time. Most are of Taylor alone. But then, your gaze stops on one you hadn’t noticed earlier.

It’s her.

And a man.

They’re standing close, smiling at each other, her hands around him, hugging him very intimately.

“Who’s that?” The question escapes your lips before you can think better of it. “That guy… in the photos.”

Taylor’s hand stills on her wine glass.

“Oh,” she says, eyes flicking briefly toward the picture. There’s a pause. Then, casually—too casually—“That’s my husband.”

Your head snaps toward her so fast, you’re sure you just gave yourself vertigo.

“What?”

She raises her eyebrows, clearly amused. “You didn’t know?”

“No, I didn’t know ,” you say, eyes wide. “Jesus, Tay—what the hell? You’re married? I’m not—I didn’t sign up to be someone’s dirty little homewrecker.”

“No, no, no,” Taylor leans in, her hand creases your face, tucking in your hair behind your ear. “Who said you’re my dirty little homewrecker?” she laughs softly, her voice is now raspy.

“We’re in an open marriage—we’re consensual.” She clears the situation, a trace of laughter still in her voice. 

You blink at her. “You’re serious?”

“I’m very serious,” she says, taking a long sip from her wine. “We’ve been like this for years. It works for us.”

“Oh.” Your heart rate starts to even out, just a little. You feel the tension start to leak from your shoulders. Taylor must see the shift in your body because she smiles, softer now.

“Does that make you feel any better? About being here?” she asks, her hand brushing lightly over your knee, then resting there—fingers warm, comforting. The warmth of her palm soothes you, you could crumble right there. While the other sips out of the wine glass.

You nod slowly. “Mhm…” The sound slips out of your mouth without permission, low and slow and relieved. You’re still swirling the wine in your glass, dreading the sip.

“So,” she says smoothly, swirling the pale gold liquid, “are you gonna give it a try?” Her eyes locked on you over the rim of her glass.

You glance at your own glass, then at her. Her eyes are waiting— calm, patient, knowing. Like she already assumes you’ll like it, because she’s the one who gave it to you. duh.

Just take a sip. And enjoy it.

You lift the glass and take a small sip. It’s... sharp at first. Crisp. Kind of dry. Your mouth puckers a little at the unfamiliar taste, the citrusy bite. You try to hide your reaction, but Taylor’s smirk deepens instantly.

“You hate it,” she says, amused.

“I don’t hate it,” you say quickly, like it’s important she believes you. “I just… didn’t expect it to taste like that, that’s all. It’s good.”

She chuckles, shifting slightly toward you, her knee brushing yours again. “It’s okay. You’ll get used to that.”

You laugh, relaxing slightly, swirling the wine like you’ve seen in movies.

“I guess I’ll just fake it ‘til I make it.”

Taylor laughs harder. Her hand flapping, covering her face.

“You’re doing fine,” she says softly. Then says, “But if you don’t want to drink, you don’t have to. I’m not trying to get you drunk.”

The thought sits between you for a second.

“Okay,” you say, voice quieter now. “Noted.”

You never placed a glass down so fast.

Taylor leans back, her arm draped along the back of the couch behind you, not quite touching your shoulder but close enough to make you feel its warmth.

The silence between you grows heavier, fuller. Not awkward—just charged. Your heart’s in your throat.

“So…” you begin, needing to say something. “Is this… is this normal?”

“What?” she asks, her voice a little lazy now. A little teasing. “Inviting students over for wine?”

You tilt your head at her. “Yeah.”

She hums, eyes drifting over you again. “No. You’re the only one I’ve done this with.”

You raise your brows, you hum in response as your stomach flips in its place.

“Why me?” you mumble out.

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she sets her glass on the table next to yours.

“Because,” she says simply, “you’re the only one who ever made me forget I was supposed to keep my distance.”

You freeze in place.

Taylor leans in, slow and deliberate. Her breath brushes against your cheek, her eyes searching your face like she’s trying to read every unspoken thought.

“Does that scare you?” Her voice is low, barely above a whisper. Her pupils are blown wide, flicking down to your lips, then back up—lingering.

You shake your head, breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

“If this makes you uncomfortable… if you want to leave—say so now.”

You don’t even hesitate. “No,” you whisper. “I don’t want to leave.”

Something in her shifts—releases.

“Thank god,” she breathes. “Because I’ve been waiting to do this since fucking Jack stepped a foot in my office.”

Before you can respond, her hands are on your face, warm and sure. She kisses you—deep, urgent, hungry—and the rest of the world just falls away.

You melt into it. Her lips move against yours with purpose, tongue slipping past the seam of your mouth like it belongs there, claiming you slowly, deliberately. Her hands cradle your face before sliding down to your waist, 

She drags her mouth down your jawline, leaving kisses along your skin.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” she murmurs, lips brushing your throat. “At any point.”

You nod, your voice shaky. “I want this.”

That does something to her—something wild. Her eyes flash with a hunger that makes your stomach flip.

“Fuck,” she groans, mouth back on yours with even more desperation. “You’re gonna be the end of me.”

Her hand slides down your side, over the curve of your thigh, slipping just beneath the hem of your dress. Her fingertips graze your skin—slowly, teasingly—leaving goosebumps in their wake.

She tastes like the wine, dry and sweet, but underneath it all is something purely her —something that makes your head spin.

Your breath is hitching against her neck. “Take me upstairs,” you whisper. “Please.”

You’re too horny now you can feel yourself leaking on her perfect, expensive, white couch.

Without a word, she stands, taking your hand in hers.

You follow.

Each step up the stairs feels impossibly slow, like your heart is trying to outrun your body. The dim lighting casts golden shadows along the hall, and Taylor’s fingers squeeze yours gently as she leads you to her bedroom.

When she pushes the door open, it’s everything you expected—warm, all soft textures and worn-in elegance. A single scented candle flickers on her dresser—diffusing vanilla air, casting dancing light across the room.

Taylor turns to you, the curve of her mouth pulling into something between lust and desire. “You sure?”

You nod. “So sure.”

“Then let me take care of you.” Taylor murmurs, her voice low and certain. Her fingers brush your shoulder as she slips one hand beneath the strap of your dress, dragging it down slowly—like she’s unwrapping something delicate, something she’s been waiting for.

The fabric pools at your waist before she guides it further, over your hips, down your thighs. You step out of it, one foot at a time, and she watches—eyes never leaving your body—as it falls to the floor.

Her gaze travels over you, pausing when she sees the red lingerie clinging to your skin. A breath hitches in her throat.

“Red,” she whispers to herself, almost praisingly. “Jesus.”

Taylor pushes you backward, step by step, until the backs of your knees brush the edge of the bed. Her mouth is on yours again—deeper this time, needier. Like she’s starved for you. You can feel the urgency in the way her lips part against yours, the way her hands glide up your sides and curve around your waist. 

Her fingers ghost over your covered breasts lightly. The heat of her palms and the softness of her touch set your skin ablaze. You moan into her mouth and arch your back, pressing your chest even closer to hers. 

“Please, Tay.” You whine. 

Your fingers reach for the clasp of your bra, your skin practically humming beneath the fabric. But Taylor catches your hand,

“No,” she says, her voice husky, almost a growl. Her eyes lock onto yours—dark, commanding, unblinking. “Let me have my fun.”

You swallow hard, your pulse stuttering in your throat.

She eases you back again, her body guiding yours until the backs of your legs hit the edge of the bed. Then her mouth dips to your jawline, trailing kisses—slow, deliberate—down the slope of your neck. The scent of her is all over you.

A gentle push, and you’re on your back, sinking into her perfectly made bed. The sheets are cool against your skin, the pillows soft behind your head. She stands over you for a second, her hands roam freely over your naked body, goosebumps raising on your skin as she’s looking down at you like she’s memorizing the sight of you.

As you lie on your back, you watch Taylor undress. She throws her pajamas across the room—she wasn't wearing a bra, you stare at her like a deer seeing headlights, then she sits on top of you, she chuckles when you stare at her; like you’ve never seen a womans tits before.

She trails kisses along the curve of your neck, slowly and gently, her hot breath against your skin. When she reaches your chest, she pauses—her lips hovering just above your boob. Her eyes flick up to meet yours, and that gaze alone makes your breath catch.

pressing a kiss on the top of your boob—soft. Her fingers slide beneath the straps of your bra, slowly easing them down your shoulders, letting them fall one by one. The bra follows next, tossed aside to join the soft pile of her pajamas on the floor.

She takes a look at your breasts, before grabbing one of them and massaging it and rolling the hard bud of your nipple under her fingers. As she leaves traces on your neck—claiming you as hers.

“So beautiful like this,” she murmurs, almost to herself, as if seeing you like this undoes something inside her. Her hands cradle your sides, thumbs grazing the edge of your ribs, grounding you in the heat between you both. Her lips brushing against your breast.  “God, look at you,”  Her tongue rolls around your nipple before she takes it in her mouth to suck on it. You close your eyes, settling into the feeling. 

Then her mouth blazes a trail of licks and kisses down your torso, along your stomach, and her head finally reaches between your legs. The heat is radiating from your core.

She grins before she crawls between your legs, her lips and tongue slowly find their way to your upper thigh, close but not enough where you want her the most. She looks at you before giving your other thigh attention.

“Please, Taylor,” one of your hands tangles up into her (now) messy hair, the other grasps her shoulder, pushing her closer to where you want her the most. “Fuck me please.”

“Language,” she’s smirking, looking at you with her lashes. “Do I have to teach you manners, too?” she’s teasing. 

“What am I supposed to say?” You sit up with your elbows. “Make love to me?” You’re annoyed now, you need her, and she’s teasing.

Taylor laughs and comes up to kiss you, “Yeah, you’re right, that sounds stupid. I’m gonna be fucking you good.” she smiles against your lips, dragging your bottom lip between hers.

“Please,” you plead as you push her down. But she won't budge.

Taylor giggles against your lips then whispers an “okay” as she trails kisses down your jaw and neck, between your breasts, taking her time to circle your nipple with her tongue that gets you arching your back into her mouth, then slowly, teasingly down your stomach, until her mouth finally reaches where you need her the most. 

She moves lower, her touch teasing, finally reaches your core and places a kiss on your clothed soaked pussy, earning a moan from you. “These have to go, for me to fuck you.” Taylor mocks you as her fingers slip beneath the waistband of your panties, pulling them down your legs and tossing them with the pile of clothes on the floor.

You roll your eyes—but not from the pleasure but from her cockiness, Taylor looks up at you from between your legs. “Roll your eyes at me one more time and you won’t be coming tonight, m’kay?” 

You look down your body to see her kneeling at the foot of the bed, grabbing your legs and pulling them over her shoulders. Your legs over her shoulder, she licks her lips at the sight of you.

“What got you so wet, baby? Was it me taking my shirt off, or finding out I’m married?” she teases as her mouth hovers intoxicatingly over you. Her hot breath hits your core, making your breath hitch. 

You moan in response.

Taylor places a soft kiss on your throbbing clit, “i’ll take real good care of you, sweetheart.” 

And then her mouth is on you, her tongue flicks your clit before dipping inside of you, curling, teasing, making your hips twitch up in response to her touch, and your head fall back on the pillow.

Your hand gets a grip of her hair, anchoring her in the place where you need her most, pushing her further against you. Taylor hums and moans into you, sending vibrations up your body. 

Your hips roll against her mouth, the heels of your feet dragging across her bare back, making her groan. She takes more of you in her mouth, driving you closer to what you need the most.

 You’re so close you can taste it, “Yes, right there.” 

It takes one last stroke that sends you over the edge with a loud cry. You arch your back, pushing your hips against Taylor’s mouth, dragging out every last drop of you, seeing the stars so clearly.

She leads you through it, licking you clean, her distant voice babbling things, you can only hear a few babbling, "So good for me, baby. There you go. Got another one in ya?”

You barely have time to recover before Taylor presses a finger against you, circling your clit, and you arch your back with a cry. 

“Tay- I can’t, I can’t-” your words are cut off by a moan as she pushes a finger inside you, pumping in and out.

“You can, sweetheart, you have one for me, come on,” Taylor says, almost a command, as she adds another long finger of hers, curling them, stroking along your inner walls, dragging out your second orgasm. 

“I want you to come for me again.” She’s demanding your climax now, and it’s not that far, a few more pumps in and out of you, and you’ll be covering her fingers.

You roll your hips against her hand, chasing your second high. She presses the heel of her palm against your clit and curls her fingers furthermore inside of you.

You cling to her perfect white sheets, as Taylor drags her curled fingers against you in a come-hither motion, “just a little more. There you go.”

“Please, I can’t.” Your legs shake from the overstimulation of her palm against you, and her fingers inside of you.

“Come for me.”

And you do. You do so hard, you let out a loud cry, and your thighs shake. You ride it out on her fingers. A flood of wet, hot arousal spills out of you onto her fingers and all over her sheets. 

Taylor rolls onto her side next to you, and you finally return from heaven to earth, catching your breath, sweating, and smelling like sex. 

“Never in a million years would I have thought of sleeping with my poetry teacher,” you say, voice quiet but playful as you turn your head to look at her. The rise and fall of your chest finally slows, your breath syncing with hers in the stillness of the room.

Taylor lets out a soft laugh—genuine, light, the kind that makes your chest ache a little. “Yeah?” she murmurs, brushing a few damp strands of hair away from your forehead. “Never thought I’d be the kind of professor to fall for one of her students.”

Your eyes widen. “Fall for?”

She shrugs, but she’s not playing it cool anymore. There’s something honest in her face, “Don’t act surprised. You’ve been in my head since day one. I couldn’t stay away. Not really.”

You go quiet, your heart doing that fluttering thing again. You weren’t sure what this was before. You still aren’t. But it feels… Real.

Taylor shifts closer, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Are you ?”

She nods back. “More than.”

She reaches over, grabs the throw blanket at the foot of the bed, and tucks it around both of you. Her fingers find yours beneath the covers. They curl together, perfectly.

“You know this doesn’t have to mean something scary,” she whispers. “It can just be… whatever it is. Ours .”

You smile at her, soft and tired and completely wrecked in the best way. “ Ours ,” you echo.

“What if they find out?” you whisper, the words barely audible.

“We’ll be lowkey,” she murmurs. “No additional office visits… unless it’s during actual office hours. No slip-ups. No risks.”

You stare at her, heartbeat thudding. That wasn’t enough. Not for what this could cost you both.

“Promise me,” you say quietly. “Promise we won’t get caught.”

Now she looks at you—slowly, seriously. Her gaze lingers on your hazy ones.

“I promise, no one will find out,” she says as she places a kiss on your shoulder and pulls you in just a little closer. 

Taylor’s eyes are heavy with sleep, too. She brushes a strand of hair from your face, her fingers lingering as if memorizing your features in the dark. You’re tucked against her shoulder, warm and weightless in her arms. 

Her promise echoes in your mind like a lullaby.

“Goodnight, angel,” she murmurs, barely above a whisper, and reaches to turn out the light. wraps herself around you, and slowly she drifts off to sleep right after.

Chapter Text

Taylor knew better than to hook up with a student—let alone invite you over to her house. But here you are. Again. Same neighborhood. Same quiet street. Same front door you stood at just a week ago, heart racing in your chest.

Earlier that day, you had your poetry midterm in class. This class, Taylor handed you back your exam—top of the pile. A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she passed it to you, like she already knew the effect it would have on you. 

After class, just as you were packing up, she called your name.

“Can I have a quick word about your grade?”

Of course.

You followed her to the front, heart doing flips. She waited until the last student filtered out, then leaned in just close enough to blur the line between appropriate and absolutely not.

“I want you at my place tonight. Seven sharp, it’s a date,” she murmured, her voice soft but firm. “You did incredibly well on that exam, and I fully intend to reward you.” She let the pause linger, then added with a smirk, “Multiple orgasms await you. Be there in time.”

Before you could react, she kissed your cheek—a quick, almost innocent gesture that left your skin burning—and turned to leave, her heels clicking across the floor.

You stood there, blinking, cheeks flushed, pulse racing.

She didn’t even look back. Just that confident, smug little smile as she disappeared down the hallway—completely sure you’d show up.

And of course… You would.

Now. You stand in front of Taylor’s front door. You fix your posture and hair, your dress. This time, though, you’re dressed a little differently—something shorter, more cleavage. Taylor told you it was a date. Yet it’s still at her place… Again.

Maybe she’s not ready to be seen with you in public. Maybe she’s being cautious. Or maybe she’s afraid. You’re not official, not really. No labels. No plans. Just soft confessions whispered between tangled sheets and locked doors.

You told her you liked her. She said she felt the same. And then she added, “It can just be… whatever it is. Ours.”

Ours.

You’ve been repeating that word ever since. Quietly. Obsessively.

Because you know what this is—and you still want it. It’s love. You know it scares you. And you know, without a doubt, that you’re already in too deep.

You ring her doorbell, heart pounding, wondering if tonight will bring answers... or more confusion wrapped in her kiss.

You're screwed.

Taylor kept her word. She gave you the multiple orgasms that she owed you. And it was fucking great. 

You spent the night at her place—again. And by morning, the lines between you and her felt even more blurred. You showered together, steam flowing around your bodies as water traced the marks she left on your skin. She kissed the marks she left, kissing your shoulder while rinsing shampoo from your hair, and you couldn’t help but smile like an idiot under the water.

Afterwards, you wore her clothes,  you slipped into one of her oversized sweaters and a pair of cotton shorts that hung too loose on your hips. She said you looked better in her clothes than she ever had. You didn’t argue; a stupid smile appeared on your face instead.

Now you were in her car, the leather warm against your thighs, her playlist soft in the background. Her right hand stayed wrapped around yours the entire drive—thumb brushing lazy circles into your palm—while her left stayed steady on the wheel.

It was quiet. The kind of quiet that didn’t need filling. It felt so right.

She took the longer route, weaving through side streets before finally pulling up near the least-used campus gate. No one was ever really there this early, and she made sure of it. Always careful. Always thinking three steps ahead. You turned to her just before opening the door, leaned in, and gave her a slow, soft kiss. Nothing heated—just the kind of kiss that lingered like a promise. She brushed your cheek afterward, eyes full of something unspoken.

“Thirty-five minutes,” you whispered.

She smiled. “Don’t be late.”

You wouldn’t dare.

You stepped out, closing the door gently behind you, and made your way toward campus. Her car stayed parked a few moments longer before pulling away.

And as you walked through the empty morning quiet, wearing her scent, her sweater, and still feeling the echo of her touch—you realized how much danger you were really in.

Because this didn’t feel like a game anymore.

You knew you were falling even deeper.

Class went by mostly normally.

Except Taylor kept glancing your way—more than usual. Her eyes would flick to you during pauses, linger just a second too long when she asked a question. And when you answered (correctly, as always), she smiled in that sly, quiet way that said she already knew you would .

"Excellent," she’d said once, voice warm and low. "As expected."

There was something in her tone. Something no one else noticed—but you heard it. Felt it.

She made a few jokes here and there, small and sharp, tossed casually into the flow of the lecture. But only you caught the double meaning. Her eyes would fall to yours after each line, waiting to see if you’d react.

You played it cool. Or at least tried to.

But when her gaze held yours after your answer on the use of contradiction in confessional poetry—when she didn’t look away even after moving on—you felt the heat creep up your neck.

She wanted you to remember. Every glance. Every pause. Every word that sounded normal to everyone else but landed differently on your skin.

And you did remember.

The night before. The shower. Taylor’s hand in yours. Her lips just behind your ear whispering, “Don’t forget that you’re mine.”

At the end of class, your pulse is faster than it was at the beginning. You pack your things slowly, waiting for the room to clear, wondering if she’d stop you. Wondering if she’d say something more. You always get excited about moments like these, so scandalous and thrilling.

And then, just as you slung your bag over your shoulder, you walk up to the front of the classroom, you hear her voice—barely above a whisper.

“Stay on campus after your classes. I’ll meet you in our spot.” Taylor’s hand reaches out for yours, biting her lip, eyes meeting yours. “ Our spot” is the one where she dropped you off earlier.

You nodded once, barely, and watched her walk out—confident, composed, untouchable. The click of her heels echoing down the hallway felt louder than anything else around you.

For the rest of the day, everything was a blur. Your classes felt like a waste of time. Every second that ticked by just felt like it was dragging you further away from her. It's really starting to get worse. All you can think about is her, instead of focusing on your classes, you're wondering why she wants to meet you at that spot. Maybe she's going to drop you off, or maybe she wants to go on a date? Your thoughts are all over the place.

Finally, your last class ended. You make your way back to the quiet campus gate—as you were told. You sit on the ivy-covered bench waiting for her.

Ten minutes passed. Then her car finally pulls up.

The same sleek, dark vehicle you knew too well by now. The window rolls down just enough for you to hear her voice, “Get in.”

You don’t hesitate.

The second you close the door behind you, Taylor barely gives you a moment to settle. She grips hardly on your face, kissing you hard and passionately, like her life depends on this kiss. 

She finally pulls back and gasps, “I’ve been waiting to do this the whole day.”

“My god, Taylor,” you gasp for air, “you’re gonna be the death of me… literally.” you joke.

She throws her head back laughing, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” she murmurs, and bites her lip.

You open your mouth to respond, but she is already kissing you—again. But this time she’s soft, gentle. She means it.

You give in, god, you’ve wanted this all day, too. She’s irresistible.

You pull back, curious, “Where are we going?”

Taylor’s lips are back on your face, not ready to let go yet. “mhmmmm” she mumbles a noise against your lips— she’s not done with you yet.

“Tell me,” you laugh against her lips, gently pushing her back from you.

She looks at you, eyes soft and wondering, teasing. “Somewhere,” she says, gaze flicking from your lips to your eyes and back again. “Would you come with me?” She leans in to kiss you again.

“I wanna go where you go, Tay,” you murmur, fingers curling lightly around the back of her neck as you pull her in for another kiss, slower this time.

“Good,” she whispers against your mouth, before shifting her focus back to the steering wheel. “Because I’m taking you out to dinner.”

You smile, settling back into the seat, still feeling the ghost of her soft lips on yours.

“Dinner, huh?” you tease, watching her with a lazy grin. “What time are we talking? Is this like... an actual date-date?”

Taylor nods, “I’ve booked us a reservation at a restaurant. Seven-thirty,” she says, tapping the steering wheel gently as she makes a turn. “Somewhere quiet. Good food. Far-ish, no risk of running into anyone from work.”

You feel the heat rise in your cheeks, and she laughs at your flustered expression.

“Go home,” she says softly, slowing the car as she nears your street. “Shower. Change into something you’d wear for someone who really, really wants to impress you.” 

You glance at her, smiling. “That’s a really, really high bar.”

Taylor pulls to a stop and leans over, brushing her lips over your cheek again. “I plan on meeting it. Be ready by seven sharp, I’ll come pick you up at 7:10.” 

She gives one kiss, then she lets you go with one last look—full of promise—and watches until you’re inside before pulling away.

Dinner at seven-thirty.

An actual date. First date. 

And suddenly, that felt a whole lot more terrifying than any secret.

Because it was starting to feel real.

You head home, showering quickly but carefully, letting the hot water chase away the nerves building in your stomach. It’s your first real date—with her —and everything has to be just right. 

You towel off, skin still warm and moist, and move straight to your vanity. You curl your hair gently, not too tight—just enough for soft, effortless waves—then brush it through to break them up. 

Your makeup is light and effortless, warm brown shadow to deepen your gaze, a touch of rose blush to keep your cheeks flushed—though you know Taylor will probably keep you flushed the entire night.

You wear a red lace set that she got you once as a gift, completely random. 

Then comes the dress.

slip into a black dress, tight in all the right places, the fabric hugging your waist, your hips, tugging your breasts forward like it was made for you—making them look amazing, by the way. You step into your nude heels, sling a silver purse over your shoulder.

By 7:10 PM, you’re ready—dressed, glowing, and already buzzing with adrenaline. You check your phone once. No texts yet. But right as you open the app to scroll, a familiar car pulls up outside your building.

Your heart stutters.

You step outside, locking the door behind you. Taylor’s car idles at the curb, sleek and dark under the golden light of early evening. 

When you open the door, she turns—and her breath catches audibly.

Her eyes sweep over you, slow and stunned. “Holy shit,” she murmurs.

You laugh softly, “You like it?” biting your lip.

Taylor blinks, still staring. “I said I was taking you to dinner… not having you for dinner.”

She smirks, eyes trailing down your body like she’s already mentally undressing you again. “Though... that’s very much still on the table.”

You slide into the passenger seat, giggling as you cross your legs, giving her a quick glance over your smoothly-shaved legs.

“Oh yeah?” you tease, eyes sparkling. “You gonna save some room for dessert?”

Taylor lets out a low laugh, biting her lip as her gaze flickers over you again. “Oh, you bet I will.” Her eyes are already hungry for you.

“You look delicious yourself as well, Miss Swift,” you tease, biting your lip and checking her out. She’s wearing a black loose bodysuit, tucked in a skirt, paired with knee-high boots, and her glasses.

Her hair is up in a low bun, and her reading glasses are back on her face. Her makeup is effortless and pretty, with her orange-toned nude lip and a short winged liner.

She exhales a low, amused breath, gripping the wheel to refocus herself. “Okay, wow. Let’s try to at least make it to dinner.”

You laugh, and she starts driving, quiet jazz humming in the background. Her hand finds yours on the center console, thumb tracing over your knuckles.

And for a second, in between the nerves and the flirtation, you feel something else settle in your chest—something soft, warm, terrifying.

This isn’t just a hookup anymore.

This is something that could really break you.

But at this very moment, it’s quiet in the car. The way she looks at you like she already sees everything—and wants it anyway.

There’s no guarantee she’ll stay.

But right now, she’s here. Driving. Smirking. Thumb tracing your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Despite all the noise in your head, you shake them all, but one thought stays.

God, you hope she stays.

The ride there is long, but Taylor’s hand creasing your thigh made time move faster. You arrive right on time—7:30 sharp. The sky outside is melting into that deep violet-blue of early night, city lights flickering on like soft applause. 

Taylor pulls up to the entrance. She hands her keys to the valet, and then her fingers slip back into yours, warm and certain. She quickly checks you out before going in.

Inside, the restaurant is dimly lit, wrapped in a golden, romantic haze. Candles flicker at each table.

At the reception, the receptionist asks, “Miss Swift, table for two?”

“Correct,” Taylor answers smoothly, not missing a beat.

God, that was hot.

“This way,” the hostess says, gesturing with a graceful sweep of her hand.

She leads you both through the room. Eyes glance your way—of course they do. 

You’re led to a table set near the center of the dining room—intimate, but not isolated. You both sit, the hostess placing menus in front of you before disappearing with the same quiet grace.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. You’re both just smiling—like two kids finally getting a playdate they weren’t sure they’d ever get. There's a lightness between you, delicate and rare. Something unspoken, but felt.

Then the waiter approaches with a welcoming smile. “What can I get you two to drink?”

Taylor doesn’t miss a beat. She rests her elbow on the table, chin delicately balanced on her knuckles. “We’ll have two glasses of Sancerre, please.”

The way she says it—confident, smooth, like this is second nature—makes you feel like you're sitting across from someone who knows exactly what she wants. And tonight, that’s clearly you.

Once the server disappears, you lean in. “You ordering wine for me now?”

Taylor shrugs with a grin. “Oh, you liked it before. And you’re almost 21, it’s not like they’re gonna ID you here.”

“It definitely grew on me,” you softly laugh. “It has a little bite to it.” You bite your lip, then look at her, “just like you.” You tease.

“Oh really? I bite?”

Flashbacks flood your memory of her biting your lips, neck, and marking you hers, and you almost moan at the thought.

“You know you do.” You glare at her.

The wine arrives quickly, poured with a quiet elegance, the chilled glasses dewing softly in the candlelight.

The waiter returns with a practiced smile. “Are you ready to order?”

Taylor gestures for you to go first. You glance at the menu one more time, then say, “I’ll have a quinoa salad, and um, the truffle pasta, please.”

You glance back at Taylor, and she’s still smiling at you, and you blush. 

“And for you, ma’am?” the waiter looks at Taylor.

“I’ll have the lobster risotto and potato puree,” Taylor adds, handing her menu back

The waiter takes both your orders, then disappears again, leaving you and her alone.

Taylor turns to you, her gaze softening as she studies you.

“What are you thinking of?” You laugh, taking a sip from your glass.

“Oh, nothing. Just thinking of how I’m gonna take this dress off of you.” Taylor speaks confidently, like that’s one of the plans on her agenda.

You almost choke on your drink, “Tay- you’re so loud.”

“Oh, we’ll see who’s loud tonight,” Taylor smirks proudly and takes a sip from her glass.

You just roll your eyes as the waiter comes and places a basket of bread.

The food arrives shortly after. The candle between you flickers gently, casting a warm glow over Taylor’s cheekbones as she eats. She hums—quiet and satisfied—and the sound curls down your spine, stirring something arousing. It’s the same hum she made that night, when her mouth was between your thighs, when her hands anchored your hips and her tongue dragged you to the edge. It sends a pulse through you now, even across a dinner table dressed in linen and soft jazz.

But for a second, you forget you’re still technically in a student-professor situation. It doesn’t feel like it anymore. It just feels… like two people figuring it out.

You talk through dinner. About uni—mostly. The final stretch of the semester is the inevitable rush of final essays and presentations. 

Then you notice there’s a shift. A change in Taylor’s expression, a tilt of her head, pushing the last of her fish around her plate before asking, “What about after fall?” she asks, voice light, but not quite casual. “You heading home for the break?”

There’s a flicker—something unsteady in her tone, not quite matching her composed posture. The question is simple. But the meaning beneath it—the soft what-about-me threaded between her words—is louder. It’s the way her eyes stay too focused, her hands too still, as if she already knows the answer she wants.

You pause, fork hovering over your plate. “I don’t know yet,” you admit, trying not to sound too cautious. “Might stay. It depends.”

Taylor doesn’t look away. She nods—slow, unreadable. But she’s not interested in her plate anymore. She’s watching you. Studying you. Reading between your pauses, as if she can extract the truth you’re not saying.

There’s a small silence. Then the waiter comes, clearing the table, and it gets awkward for a moment. Then he left, leaving you two alone again.

“Unless you… want me to,” you mumble. “To stay.” 

Your eyes meet hers—and hers had never left yours. There’s something like relief in her gaze, something unguarded. Something achingly tender.

“I do,” she says, voice low, like she’s afraid of scaring the moment away. “I want you to stay.”

And that’s it.

Nothing else needs to be said.

Taylor’s fingers drift across the table to find yours, her touch warm and possessive, thumb tracing slow lines over your knuckles.

Just then, the waiter reappears, holding two dessert menus. “This is our dessert menu, I’ll be—”

“No need for that,” Taylor cuts in smoothly, her voice low but firm. “Just the check, please. Thanks.”

Something about the way she says it—targeted and slightly urgent—stirs warmth to rise in your lower stomach.

“Right away, Ma’am.” the waiter says, and disappears without another word.

You clear your throat softly and reach for your purse. “I’m gonna hit the bathroom real quick before we head out—fix my lipstick.” You gesture to your mouth.

Taylor smirks, her eyes skimming over your lips. “I’ll be right here,” she says. “Don’t take too long, I’m really craving my dessert,” she teases.

You don’t need to ask what she means by that.

By the time you return, you spot the check on the table just as you try and reach for it. “Wait, let me at least cover my half,” you say, pulling your purse open.

Taylor’s hand shoots out, gently pressing your wrist down to the table.

“Oh, no. Sit.” Her tone is calm, but commanding—leaving no room for argument.

Taylor leans in, lips brushing just close enough to your ear, her voice low and deliberate. “Good girls don’t pay when they’re being thoroughly devoured later.”

You blink. A soft gasp leaves your lips.

She pulls back with a smirk. “Sit pretty and let me spoil you.” 

It’s only then that you realize the waiter is still standing there—awkward, flushed, definitely within earshot. But Taylor doesn’t flinch. Without breaking eye contact with you, she hands him her card with effortless confidence, like she didn’t just make your pulse spike and your knees weak.

The waiter stammers, “I’ll, uh… be right back,” before all but scurrying away.

Taylor, unfazed, reclines slightly in her chair. She handles the moment like she handles everything else—with that same quiet decisiveness. Like she’s always a step ahead. Like she likes reminding you exactly who’s in control.

And God , do you let her.

The waiter returns with her card and a flustered smile. Taylor thanks the waiter, then stands up from her chair. Without a word, she reaches her hand toward you, and you take it, fingers slipping into hers like they were always meant to fit.

There’s something quiet and intimate in that gesture—something that says this isn’t over yet .

You walk out of the restaurant hand in hand, her thumb brushing yours with small, knowing strokes. Under the soft buzz of the city lights, you feel more seen than you have in weeks.

The ride home is quiet—not for lack of words, but because so much has already been said without speaking. Taylor drives with one hand, one hand confidently on the wheel, the other sprawled across your thigh like it belongs there. Her thumb makes slow, idle circles on your skin, teasingly close to the hem of your dress. 

By the time she turns onto her street, something's shifted. The night feels charged—every inch of space between you crackling with everything that’s been said in glances, in touches, in the way she’s been holding your thigh like a silent promise.

She pulls into her driveway and cuts the engine. But neither of you moves.

The silence is heavy—but not awkward. It’s expectant.

She turns toward you slowly, the car’s soft cabin light carving shadows across her jawline. Her hand reaches up, tucking a curl behind your ear, but her fingers stay, tracing the line of your cheek with deliberate slowness—like she’s memorizing it. 

Then she leans in. The kiss is slow, deliberate, tasting of Sancerre and want. There’s no rush; she already knows exactly how the night ends.

When she pulls back, her gaze lingers on your lips, then drops lower, like she’s already undressing you with her eyes.

"Better get you inside before I pull you into the backseat and have you right here in my driveway." Her voice is dripping in lust and hunger, even though you just had dinner.

You blink at her, breathless.

“I’ve been patient this whole time, please,” she murmurs, lips brushing yours.

Oh my god.

“Also, I’ve waited so long for dessert, come on,” she says innocently,  but her eyes say otherwise, “Been dying to have a bite of my cream pie.”

Your jaw drops—half laughing, half turned on. “Taylor—”

“What?” she says innocently, stepping out of the car. “I have a sweet tooth.”

You laugh as you get to the front door. She unlocks it, then turns and extends a hand toward you, voice low and dangerous.

“After you.”

And when you step inside, Taylor doesn’t wait before she’s already on you. Her hands slide around your waist, lips crashing against yours like she’s been holding her breath all day just to do this.

“Tay—” you mumble, laughing mid-kiss, trying to catch your balance as her tongue finds its way down your throat.

She kisses you deep, slow but insistent, like she’s trying to memorize the shape of your lips. When she finally pulls back, her forehead rests lightly against yours.

“I’ve been patient,” she whispers, breath tickling your jaw. “So, so patient.”

You smile, fingers brushing her bangs back in place. “I noticed. Even let me finish my pasta,” you tease, your voice soft.

“Yeah, I’m so kind,” Taylor rolls her eyes, but she’s already leaning in for another kiss, lips catching yours like it’s instinct.

You reach for her hand and squeeze it, grounding her—and yourself. “Then let’s get to your room before you take me right here.”

“I might,” she says, grinning like she’s barely holding herself together, her lips brushing your jaw in a lingering kiss.

“Tayyyylorrrrr—” you whine, dragging out her name with a mix of mock-exasperation and real need. She knows the difference.

“Alright, alright,” she laughs, finally giving in as she tugs you toward the hallway.

She leads you with a sure hand, not rushing, but there’s a tension in the air—like a thread pulled tight. Neither of you speaks, but the silence between steps buzzes louder than words.

By the time you reach her bedroom, Taylor’s chest is rising just a little faster. She opens the door, steps inside, and—for a moment—resists the urge to touch you again.

Then her hands find your face—cupping it as she kisses you again, and she kisses you slow—like the first sip of something she’s been craving all day.

“I missed touching you,” she whispers, resting her hands against your chest. “Finals suck,” Her bottom lip pouts.

“Yeah, and I’ve been way too good of a girl lately,” you murmur, nudging her backward. Your hand sliding to her hip, voice turning sly. “Did all the extra credit… But if I still get graded on a curve?” You grin at her—amused by your own joke.

Taylor laughs, breath catching as the backs of her legs hit the mattress, her eyes flicking down to your lips.

“Oh my god , you’re ridiculous,” she says, even as her breath catches when your fingers find her zipper.

“Better give me an A+ for it,” you finish with a grin, your fingers already brushing the zipper at the back of her dress.

“That was so bad.” She giggles.

“Oh, you don’t get to talk about bad jokes,” you say, rolling your eyes, though your smile betrays you. “But it was accurate,” you add as you begin to ease the zipper down—slow, steady—revealing the warm skin of her back inch by inch. “And I do study hard.”

Taylor bites her lip, eyes locked on yours. “Then stop talking and prove it.” 

You slip the dress off her shoulders, and it falls like liquid to the floor. She doesn’t rush you—just stands there in her underwear, letting you look, letting the tension stretch between you again.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” You murmur, voice low and reverent. 

“Ah-ah,” Taylor tuts, a teasing glint in her eyes. “Language, babe.” 

You huff a soft laugh, rolling your eyes, unable to stop smiling. “Oh, come on—school’s over.” 

She smirks, stepping just a little closer, her fingers brushing under your chin. “Doesn’t mean I won’t keep you on line.”

You smile into her touch, your hands gliding slowly down her sides, deliberate and warm. “Yeah?” you murmur. “What if I like being a little out of line?” 

Taylor leans in, her lips just grazing yours—just enough to make you ache. “Then I guess I’ll just have to straighten you out.”

You don’t get a chance to fire back before she kisses you again—deeper this time, needier. Her arms wrap around your shoulders, pulling you closer, and your hands find her waist, holding her like you never want to let go. 

As her lips trail to your jaw, her glasses lenses fog up just enough that she reaches up to take them off.

You pull back slightly, breathless, and catch her wrist.

“Oh no,” you murmur, eyes dark as they lock onto hers. “These stay on.”

Taylor pauses, brows lifting in surprise—then she grins, slow and a little breathless. “Yeah?”

You nod, reaching out to gently push them back up her nose. “You don’t even know how hot you look right now.”

She laughs under her breath, the sound breathy, flushed. “You’re ridiculous.”

She laughs, and then her fingers trail down your back—finding your zipper with slow, purposeful intent.

Then her fingers trail down your back, finding your zipper.

She moves slowly—deliberate— dragging it down your zipper inch by inch, her fingertips grazing your spine and sending a ripple of heat through you. She pushes the dress past your shoulders, letting it slip down your arms, soft fabric whispering against your skin until it pools at your waist.

Taylor steps back just enough to look at you—really look.

She exhales slowly, her gaze dropping to the red lingerie you wore beneath. A flush rises to her cheeks, her lips parting slightly at the sight of you in red .

“ God ,” she breathes, her voice low.

The way she’s looking at you makes your skin feel like it’s burning.

She reaches out, fingers tracing lightly over the swell of your tits where it spills over the edge of your bra, down to your ribs, her touch is featherlight.

“You’re so beautiful,” she murmurs, her voice thick with something between awe and hunger. 

You don’t give her time to say more.

“Stop talking,” you whisper, and then you push her gently back.

She lets out a soft gasp as her back hits the sheets—but she’s smiling as she tugs you down with her.

You follow her down, lips finding hers again, and the room shrinks to the heat between your bodies, the soft sound of breath, and the rustle of sheets.

You pull back slightly, eyes roaming over Taylor’s flushed face before slowly making your way down her body. Your hands anchor you on either side of her waist as you trail soft kisses along her stomach, inch by inch, until you're hovering just above her hips.

“You paid for dinner,” you murmur, lips brushing over her skin. You kiss the space just above her waistband, then lower, savoring the way her breath catches. One of your hands slides up her thigh, your thumb stroking gently as you ask, voice low and playful, “So how will I ever repay you?”

“Fuck—please,” Taylor whines, her voice wrecked already, hips lifting toward you instinctively.

You smile against her skin, kissing your way back up to her mouth. You drag her bottom lip between yours, teasing, before whispering, “Okay, baby,” against her lips.

Then you trail back down—your kisses softer now, slower—over her jaw, her throat, across the tops of her breasts—which are still annoyingly clothed. You make a mental note to deal with that later, but right now, all your focus is drawn lower.

You press kisses down her stomach, lingering every few inches until you reach the spot where her body arches up into you, craving contact.

“Please, baby,” Taylor begs, her voice breathy and strained—your mouth hovers just above where she needs you most tantalizingly.

You look up at her with a wicked little smile, then finally hook your fingers into the sides of her panties. You take your time, dragging them down her thighs at a torturously slow pace, watching her squirm beneath you, trying to help you tug them off faster.

You toss them aside casually, and she watches as you lean back, settling on your knees between her spread legs, taking in the view between her legs.

“So beautiful,” you whisper—mostly to yourself, but loud enough for her to hear.

You lean in again, mouth hovering just above her center, the heat of your breath already making her tremble. Your hands slide beneath her thighs, grabbing her legs and pulling them over your shoulders. 

You lower your head and drag your tongue in one slow, deliberate stripe from her entrance to her clit. Taylor moans, her entire body twitching in response.

You curl your tongue, tasting her—every moan of hers slipping back into your mouth—motivating you to keep going—deeper, harder. She’s soaked, and you don’t waste a second, gathering it all, groaning softly at the taste.

Then your tongue pushes deeper—fucking into her, slow and steady.

“Fuck,” Taylor gasps, her back arching, bringing your face even closer. One of her hands finds your head, fingers tangle into your hair like she’s anchoring herself. Her other grip the sheets tight. She grinds herself against your mouth, shameless now, falling apart under you.

You work her open with your tongue, steady and hungry, lips wrapped around her, sucking, drawing out her orgasm on your tongue. Your own hips roll against nothing, desperate just from her . The way she sounds. The way she tastes. The way she’s moaning your name, slurring it, repeating it like a prayer.

With one last thrust, her legs shake, her breath stutters, moans rising in pitch, and you feel her thighs tremble against your ears. 

“Oh— oh my god ,” Taylor cries, hands fisting in your hair, “baby—don’t stop.”  

You double down, flicking your tongue against her clit, letting her ride it out, holding her legs tight as she falls apart on your mouth.

Taylor comes hard, loud.

You don’t stop until her thighs twitch and she whimpers, too sensitive, hips shifting away.

You finally pull back, breathless, licking your lips and making a show out of it. “There it is,” you murmur, voice wrecked with want. “So fucking good for me.”

Taylor lies there for a moment, blinking at the ceiling, chest heaving. “Language,” she tuts, voice raspy—gone, slowly proping herself up on her elbows, still catching her breath.

You roll your eyes, sitting back up on your knees, wiping your chin, and licking her mess.

And then that glint behind her glasses returns.

Before you could even notice it, you’re being pulled against the bed, flipping you over. Her strength catches you off guard, but you laugh as she climbs over you and straddles your waist.

Taylor leans down, “Your turn,” she says, voice husky. Kissing you hard, tasting herself on your lips, groaning softly into your mouth.

Then she pulls back, breath warm against your cheek.

“Don’t move.”

You blink, surprised—but you obey, confused.

Taylor slides off the bed, walking—still a little shaky—over to the drawer. She opens, pulling out a black harness and a dildo already attached. She holds it up slightly, giving you a slow, smug smile.

Taylor steps into the harness slowly, tightening the straps around her hips with practiced fingers, her eyes never leaving yours. The glint behind her glasses is pure intent—steady, focused, and hungry. Then she reaches behind her and unclasps her bra, letting it slide from her shoulders.

You follow her lead instinctively, slipping out of both your remaining garments in one breathless motion.

Then she walks toward you with a slow, predatory confidence, climbing onto the bed and straddling your thighs.

“Come. Suck.” Taylor says low—commanding, urgent. 

You don’t hesitate.

Your body moves on instinct as you sit up, your hands reaching for her hips to steady her. You look up at her through your lashes, lips parting as your tongue presses a long, deliberate stripe up the length of the silicone cock.

Taylor’s hips twitch forward, chasing sensation even through the harness. The pressure at the base grinds perfectly against her core, making her gasp softly above you.

“Fuck— just like that, yes.” Taylor breathes heavily, her voice full of encouragement and strained.

You wrap your lips around the tip, moaning softly around it as you take more, letting your mouth work the toy—making a scene out of it. Your eyes stay on hers the whole time, and her mouth falls open, a flush creeping across her cheeks.

Taylor rocks forward slightly, just enough for the harness to rub where she needs it, her breath hitching as she watches you. “Get it nice and wet for me, sweetheart,” she says, one hand slipping into your hair, guiding your rhythm.

You moan around the toy, eyes fluttering closed for a second as you let her set the pace, your throat growing slick and full as she bobs your head gently.

Then suddenly, she pulls back—her fist tightening just slightly in your hair as she lifts you off the toy.

You’re breathless, lips wet and parted, confused by the sudden stop.

“Lie down for me, baby,” she murmurs, her tone still stern—dominating.

Taylor pushes you back into the pillows with both hands, her body following close behind, settling between your legs, hooking them over her arms, spreading you open with the harness pressed between you. 

“You ready for me, darling?” she whispers, her voice low, full of sex. Her eyes flick between yours.

You nod, wide-eyed, chest rising fast. “Please.”

“Good,” she breathes.

She lines herself up, taking her time, pressing the tip of the dildo against your clit. Then sliding it down, and pushing it forward—slowly, steadily. Her gaze never leaves yours, even as your mouth drops open around a moan.

She fills you inch by inch, hips rolling in smooth rhythm, grounding herself against you like she’s savoring the way your body stretches around her.

Taylor’s jaw tightens as the toy sinks deep, the base grinding right where she needs it. She groans softly, the friction against her clit.

“Fuck,” she breathes, voice trembling, “you’re so tight, baby.”

You let out a louder moan, your body arching up into hers as she begins to move—pulling out slow, then pushing back in, watching with fascination as the strap disappears inside you again.

“Look at you,” she murmurs. “God, you’re so fucking beautiful like this. Taking me so well. Like the good girl that you are”

You whimper beneath her, already trembling, your hands gripping the sheets or searching for something to hold onto—her hands, arms, anything.

“You’re doing so good for me,” Taylor says, her tone firm, encouraging. 

She adjusts her hips, changing the angle just slightly—and that’s when she finds it. That perfect spot. The one that makes you see stars.

“Right there?”

“Fuck— Yes, right there, don’t stop,” you manage to mumble out, your body pulsing around her with every thrust.

Your body clenches, and she doesn't stop—doesn’t ease up for a second—just keeps moving, talking you through it, and her eyes locked on yours. You throw your head back. 

 “Come on, baby,” she whispers, her breath brushing your lips. “Let go for me.” 

Taylor talks you through your first orgasm. “That’s it, that’s my good girl. You look so good like this, baby.”

And with that—her voice, her pace, her everything —you fall over the edge.

Your orgasm hits hard, crashing into you in waves, your back arching off the bed, a broken cry falling from your lips. Taylor keeps moving, slower now, fucking you through it, whispering sweet nothings as your body trembles beneath her. “There you go,” she whispers, “That’s my girl.”

Taylor eventually pulls out of you, taking off the harness and plopping down next to you in bed beside you with a heavy exhale.

You both lie there for a moment, catching your breath in the quiet. The sheets are tangled between you, your bodies flushed and worn.

“Thank you for tonight, for dinner, ‘nd sex,” you murmur sleepily, voice low and a little slurred. “I had a fun time.”

Taylor turns her head toward you, nudging your arm lightly with her elbow. “Thank you for tonight. You did a lot, too,” she says teasingly with a soft smile.

Her fingers find your hair and begin gently, lazy playing with it. 

You both laugh—quiet and tired. Then, the laughter fades, and a soft silence settles in. It's not uncomfortable, but it's heavy. You’re still drunk, still in the afterglow, but the weight of sleep is pulling at your limbs.

Taylor’s fingers in your hair aren’t helping. They’re slow, soothing—like she’s trying to pull you into rest.

“You should sleep, angel,” she whispers. Her voice is a lullaby in itself, soft and warm and safe.

You hum something sleepy in reply, then barely above a whisper, you add, “Goodnight, Tay. I love you so much.”

It slips out without thinking—slurred and raw, sincere in the way only the very drunk or very honest can be.

There’s a pause.

Her fingers are still in your hair for the briefest moment. You don’t catch her expression—you’re already slipping under, the world starting to blur.

But you do feel it when her hand rests gently at the back of your head, when she pulls you just a little closer into her chest, her breath warm against your forehead.

“I love you too ,” Taylor whispers, more to herself than to you.

You’re already asleep by the time she says it—but she holds you anyway, like maybe she’s not quite ready to let go of the moment either. She reaches for the nightstand to turn off the bedside lights and tucks herself back next to you.

A couple of nights later, Taylor texts you again—asks you to come over. Wine, sex, more wine, more sex. That’s been the rhythm of your nights lately, especially as the semester winds down. You’ve started canceling plans without hesitation, skipping brunches and movie nights, all for a few extra stolen hours with her.

A “Meet me behind the mall” text in the middle of a hangout? You barely blink before making up some excuse and slipping away, just drowning in the hope of it all. 

Classes? They’ve been… interesting. Taylor’s looser now, playful even—her confidence practically dripping from every sarcastic comment she throws across the lecture hall. You wish you could focus, but your mind stays busy with memories of her mouth, her hands, her strap—how she ruins you, repeatedly, like she was made to do it—

Slow down. Retreat.

After one class, just as students begin to file out, Taylor stops you by the door, voice calm but commanding.

“Meet me in my office. 10 am sharp.”

You glance around—some students are still lingering, gathering their things—but you can’t help the grin that tugs at your lips.

“Yes, Miss Swift,” you reply, loud enough for her and whoever is still in class to hear.

10:12 am. You’re standing outside her office door, your heart skipping in its usual nervous rhythm. You knock three times, just like always.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Come in,” Taylor calls, her voice clipped, firm.

You open the door with a smile. “Hi.”

Taylor doesn’t smile back. Instead, she glances past you, eyes scanning the hallway. “Did anyone see you come here?”

You blink. “Uh—no? No one was around.” You laugh lightly, brushing it off. “Why?”

“Oh,” she says quickly, eyes darting away. “Nothing. Just making sure.”

You settle into the chair across from her desk, feeling the shift. She didn’t greet you the way she usually does. No warm hand on yours, you miss the brush of her fingers on yours. You make a note of it. Something’s different today.

You talk for a bit—surface-level chatter, safe. Then you mention the paper due next week, the one you’ve half-written and half-abandoned. She nods, slipping back into her professor mode, opening her laptop and pulling up the rubric. She leans forward to show you.

Her scent reaches you—familiar, maddening—and suddenly you’re aware of every inch between you.

But she’s focused. Too focused. You can tell she’s making an effort to be distant for some reason. Still, the tension simmers beneath it all. When your knees brush under the desk or when your fingers graze the edge near hers, she pauses. Just for a second. But long enough for you to notice. Her eyes flick to yours, dark and unreadable.

She closes the laptop with a soft snap. Something changes.

Taylor leans back in her chair, gaze locked on you, her expression unreadable but burning beneath the surface. “Wanna come over tonight?” she asks casually. “For wine. And… a chat.”

You raise an eyebrow, catching the edge in her voice. “Just say you want to fuck, Tay.”

She narrows her eyes. “Language.”

You roll your eyes at her, “When will you stop with that?” you genuinely ask.

Taylor’s voice drops low—commanding. “Be at mine at 8 pm. Sharp.”

“Any later…” she trails off, her voice turning firm, “and you won’t be coming at all. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” you murmur, biting your lower lip.

That night, you’re in her bed again—her hands on your hips, her mouth pressed to your neck, the wine made everything feel a little heavier, a little looser. She didn't waste time, didn't draw it out like usual. Just pulled you into her lap, kissed you senseless, and made you fall apart on her thigh with your as you ride her, grinding hard, biting your lip to stifle any moans. Her hands help your hips move faster.

You shortly come undone on her thigh, cleaning your mess up leads to you eating her out, til she comes apart on your tongue.

Then you drop onto the bed beside her. You both lie there for a moment, catching your breath in the quiet. The sheets are tangled between you, your bodies flushed and worn.

Then, silence.

Taylor’s hand finds yours, and she locks her fingers with yours before they pause.

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” she says quietly.

“Oh,” you breathe.

“But I don’t want to ruin tonight.” She gently withdraws her hand.

Your stomach sinks. “Did I do something wrong?” You lift yourself onto your elbows, trying to read her expression. You force a small smirk, trying to lighten the moment. “I’ll do better this round,” you joke, implying eating her out again.

Taylor actually laughs—soft and fond. “No. God, it’s not that.” She licks her lips, “I’ll consider your offer, though.”

You giggle, “nope, it’s limited for a little time, and your time isssss,” you trail off to look at an imaginary watch on your wrist, “over. Sorry,” you pout.

You both laugh, then you can see her expression fading, “What is it, Tay?” You’re concerned now.

She sighs and looks up at the ceiling like it might buy her time. “It’s the school.”

You blink. “What about it?”

“They sent me a rules violation warning,” she admits.

You sit up straighter, heart skipping. “What?” Your voice comes out sharper than expected.

“I didn’t want to tell you until I knew how serious it was,” Taylor says, looking over at you now. “But the rumors are true, they’ve been… watching us.”

Your stomach drops. “Oh my god. Oh my god ,” you repeat, panic clawing at your throat. “Taylor—fuck, am I going to get kicked out? I can’t—fuck, I can’t— I’m gonna be kicked out. Fuck. Fuck!”

“Babe, breathe.” Taylor reaches out, rubbing your back with a slow, grounding touch. “I told you I’m not going to let anything happen to you, I promised.”

You shake your head, overwhelmed. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

She closes her eyes for a second. “Because I didn’t want it to change how we… how I feel when I’m with you.”

“But it kind of does now, doesn’t it?” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

She doesn’t answer right away.

“Taylor,” you press. “Answer me.”

“I don’t know!” she blurts, frustration bleeding through. “I don’t know what this means for us.”

Silence stretches between you like a fault line.

“Who told them?” you ask, voice sharper now, hurt threading through your anger.

“I don’t know,” she murmurs. “It couldn’t be Jack—I trust him. And no one from my department would risk this. Maybe… maybe a student saw something.”

You sigh, dragging your hands down your face.

Taylor leans forward, her voice softer now. “Look, we need to be careful. We need to… keep our distance. At least until next semester. Just long enough for things to cool down.”

You look at her, eyes burning. “So we’re just supposed to pretend none of this matters?”

“No,” she says, reaching for your hand. “We don’t have to pretend. But we do have to be smart.”

You nod slowly, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I can do that. For us… I will.”

Taylor brushes her thumb over your knuckles. “I don’t want this to be the end,” she says softly. “I just need to protect what we’ve had. Protect you. ”

“I trust you,” you whisper to her.

She lies back, and you curl into her side, fitting into the shape of her body like you were always meant to. Her arms wrap around you, secure, careful. You bury your face in her neck, breathing her in, memorizing her skin. This could be the last time you get to do this, but god, you don’t wanna think about this right now, all you want to think about is this moment right now, in her arms.

Taylor’s fingers drift through your hair again, and for a while, neither of you speaks.

“I love you,” you murmur, half-asleep.

Taylor doesn’t say it back—not right away. But she kisses your forehead, long and slow, like a promise. “I love you,” she whispers to herself, as tears form in her eyes.

You haven’t been to her office since the warning. Haven’t gone to her house. Haven’t felt her fingers tangled in your hair or her breath warm against your skin. It’s been weeks. A whole winter break spent apart, save for a few dry, polite texts. Nothing real. Nothing that felt like her.

You didn’t try to chase her. Not because you didn’t want to—but because it felt like the only way to protect both of you. Still, the ache never let up. Missing her had become a constant, a dull pressure just beneath your ribs.

Then, the first class after the break.

You walk in early, heart thudding against your sternum, nerves stretched thin. You don’t know what you expected—maybe a flicker of warmth, a soft smile, a stolen glance. But Taylor’s cool, composed. Unreadable. A glacier in heels and glasses, clicking through slides like she hadn’t once whispered your name against your neck. Like she hadn’t pushed your legs apart, looked up at you while her mouth—

You force the memory down.

She doesn’t look at you. Not once. Not when she greets the class. Not when you raise your hand to answer a question. Not even when class ends and you linger a second longer than needed. 

It’s like you imagined it all. Like it never happened.

But you know it did. Because the faint mark she left on your collarbone still hasn't faded, no matter how much time or distance has tried to erase it.

You keep telling yourself you're not avoiding her. That you’re protecting something fragile. That maybe she’s hurting too. But fuck, it’s getting harder.

Her absence isn't just a void—it’s a haunting. You find yourself catching phantom traces of her perfume in empty hallways. Listening for her voice in the shuffle of papers. Searching every lecture slide for a hidden message she’ll never send.

And with every class that passes—every glance she doesn’t give, every word that doesn’t belong to you—the longing grows unbearable. You tell yourself you’ll be fine. That it’s over. That you’re stronger than this.

But when she didn’t even send you a Happy New Year ?

That nearly broke you.

It wasn’t just painful—it was actual hell.

This class was the worst one yet.

You were late.

And not just by a minute or two. You’d hit snooze one too many times, but now it’s too late. You bolted out of bed in a blur, threw on the first halfway-decent thing you could find. Hoodie. Comfy pants. Threw your hair into a ponytail. Almost forgot to lock your front door.

You sprinted across campus like your life depended on it, lungs burning by the time you reached the building.

As you slipped into the lecture hall, breathless and disheveled, she didn’t even look at you.

“I’ll need to speak with you after class,” Taylor said sharply, her voice cutting through the air like ice.

And then—nothing. She continued her class like you didn’t interrupt her

For the next hour and forty-five minutes, she acted like you didn’t exist. No glances. No hidden smirks. No passive-aggressive questions directed your way. It was like you’d been erased from the room entirely. 

Why is she doing this?

You couldn’t focus on the lecture. Every tick of the clock dragged. You hated that she could make you feel like this—with nothing more than silence.

You couldn’t wait to speak with her after the class had ended. You were counting every second, memorizing the tick sound of the clock in the classroom.

When class finally ended, students shuffled out in a blur. Your heart thudded like a drumroll, each beat getting louder as the room emptied. Until it was just the two of you. 

She didn’t look at you until the last student was gone.

“Come here,” she said, tapping the edge of her desk.

No point pretending you didn’t hear her.

You walked up slowly, pulse pounding.

She didn’t soften.

You swallowed hard, throat suddenly dry. You had no idea what was coming. Taylor could a) drop you from her class, b) say she regretted everything, c) pretend it never happened at all—or something worse. Your mind raced through every possibility, each one worse than the last.

“Was there an important reason why you were…” She glanced down at her watch. “Thirty minutes late to my class today?”

So she does care. Noted . 

You stood there, caught. No good excuse. Just the truth.

“I overslept,” you said. “I’m sorry.”

She raised a brow, the corner of her mouth twitching like she was holding something back. A sigh. A lecture. Or worse.

Then she simply said, “You can leave now.”

what?  

You blinked. “That’s it?”

But the question came out sounding smaller than you intended. The way she takes away your confidence and dominance should be studied.

“Why are you acting like this?” you asked before you could stop yourself. The words tumbled out, tight and strained.

She looked up at you then, eyes unreadable. Cold.

“Like what?” she asked.

You hesitated. “Like I’m just some student you’re annoyed with.”

She tilted her head. “Aren’t you?”

“Tayl-”

“It’s Miss Swift to you,” she corrected, voice razor-sharp. That landed harder than she expected.

Your expression dropped. 

You froze. She stared back, face carefully composed, a wall you couldn’t see through anymore.

You nodded slowly. Swallowed.

“Okay, Miss Swift,” you said.

Then you turned and walked out. A storm forming in your eyes.

And the door closing behind you sounded too much like an ending.

The next class was your final exam.

You've studied hard for it just in case she'd change her mind about your grade.

You arrived early, earlier than anyone else. The room was still dim, the morning sun just starting to stretch through the windows. You sat in the second row, not your usual spot. Just in case she walked in and glanced your way. Just in case she says something — anything .

But when the door finally opens, it isn’t the familiar rhythm of heels or the crisp scent of her perfume that fills the air.

It’s Professor Jack.

He walks in with a thick stack of papers and an unusually serious expression. You face exclaims your disappointment. 

“Everyone, sit down,” he says, his voice firm but weighted. “I need to talk to you before I hand out your exams.”

Your heart skips a beat.

Jack looks around the room, and for a second, his eyes pass over you—softening, maybe, but not enough to change what he’ll say next.

“Your previous teacher, Miss Swift, won’t be here to examine you today. She’s been expelled from the university… for personal reasons.”

What.

You feel a sharp pain in your chest; it happened. She’s gone. Forever. 

You feel like your heart has stopped. You barely feel yourself breathe.

She’s gone .

No warning. No goodbye. Not even a final glance across the room.

Jack passes the exam to you, and you just leave it there, sitting on your desk. 

You can’t bring yourself to even open it. But eventually you do, ink barely visible through the tears you refused to let fall. The silence in your head screams louder than the scrape of chairs and the rustle of papers around you.

You had feared it. You had known it.

The exam finishes. You barely remember the questions. You’d written answers, your hand moving on autopilot while your mind stayed frozen in that moment— expelled.

You walk up to the desk, your paper clutched loosely in your hand. Professor Jack takes it gently, his eyes soften to yours.

You look back, eyes heavy, throat tight. He just nods. And somehow, that says everything.

You walk out of the room emotionless. The hallway hums with the buzz of finals week, but all you hear is silence.

You pass by her office as if on instinct; it’s always been on your way out. Just to see it empty. But the shelves are empty, every book gone. Her desk, empty. The nameplate beside her door, gone .

It all starts to set in. That’s when you decide to go and see her. Face to face. You needed to.

You don’t think anymore. You just go. You drive to her house, your vision blurry— but you memorized her street, every crack on it. Her neighborhood— you could find it in your sleep. 

Her car is parked in the driveway. Same as always. 

You park your car where you always do, and you sit there for a little while—wondering if you’re making the right choice. 

Then you step out. Your legs move on instinct. You stand behind the front door where she once held your hand. 

You reach your hand and knock. Three times.

You wait.

Then you hear it—the soft turn of the lock, the creak of the door opening.

And there she is.

Taylor is standing there.

She blinks at you, quickly glancing around behind you like she half-expects someone to be watching. 

“What are you doing?” she asks. Her voice is low. Cold. But it’s still her voice .

God, you’ve missed it. You missed her .

And something inside you breaks.

“Fuck, Taylor,” you breathe out, and everything you’ve been holding in—the ache in your chest, the silence, the way it felt walking past that empty office—comes rushing out like a flood.

“I came to see you,” you say, stepping forward. But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for you. Just stands there like a wall, arms crossed, guarding something inside.

“You didn’t even say goodbye.”

She bites her lip. Her chin trembles, just slightly; she’s holding back all her emotions. 

“I couldn’t,” she finally says, her voice barely above a whisper. “It would’ve made it harder.”

“For who?”  you ask, voice shaking. “For you? For me? Because this—” you gesture between you, “ this hurts. It hurts so fucking much, Taylor.”

Your tears finally fall, hot and messy. You wipe them quickly, but it’s no use.

Taylor swallows hard. Her jaw clenches. Her eyes glisten, but she blinks it away.

“You think it doesn’t hurt me, too?” She snaps, voice cracking.

You cry. “Why didn’t you let me in? I would’ve fought for you! We could’ve thought of something, Tay—fuck.” You’re crying in full now, chest heaving, voice breaking. “We could’ve tried to make this work.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, soft but broken.

“You threw everything away! I love you, for fuck’s sake!”

The words are out before you can catch them, and the silence that follows is loud and sharp.

Taylor’s breath catches.

“I know.”

“Then why , Taylor? Why did you throw it all away?”

You step closer—just inches now—and you can see the tremble in her hands—you hold them.

She finally meets your eyes.

“Do you think I wanted this?” she breathes. “They were going to expel you. Do you understand that? They had the paperwork ready. I saw it.” 

You freeze.

“I stepped in. Told them it was me . That I initiated it. That you didn’t pursue me. That I manipulated you.”

Her voice shakes. “I let them take everything from me because if they hadn’t, they would’ve taken you. ”

She points at you, her finger pressing lightly into your chest like she’s trying to remind you you’re real.

You just cry, unable to move.

“I love you too,” she says, finally, like it physically hurts to say. “I did this for us. I thought you knew.”

You stare at her—eyes wide, hands limp at your sides—your breath caught somewhere between a sob and a gasp.

You move without thinking—arms around her, pulling her in. She resists for a second, body stiff, breath caught, but then she breaks too, clutching you like she’s been holding herself together just long enough.

And then it’s tears—hers, yours—blurring the lines between pain and comfort.

“I’m sorry,” she says before kissing you—slow and raw, like an apology and a promise all at once.

She pulls back, but her hands don’t leave you. They stay at your shoulders like they don’t know how to let go yet. Her eyes are glassy and tired.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make this work,” she whispers, her fingers tightening just slightly, like she’s holding on to the last seconds. “Maybe… maybe in another time, this would work. When you’ve graduated. When we’re not—” her voice cracks, “ this. ”

You shake your head. “Don’t say that. Don’t give up on us, Tay.”

“I’m not giving up,” she says gently, “I’m letting go.”

The words hit like a needle poking your heart.

“I have nothing left here, not after what happened. And you… You still have your future. You still have a chance.”

You’re crying again, but quieter this time. It’s the kind of crying that doesn’t even come with sound—just shaking shoulders and a tight, stinging throat.

“I don’t care about my future if you’re not in it,” you say.

Taylor presses her forehead against yours, eyes closed. You both stay there, breathing the same air, letting the silence wrap around your grief.

“I love you,” she murmurs. “And that’s why I have to go.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Because part of you knows she’s right.

“We’ll find each other in the future,” she reassures.

She kisses you once more, softer this time. Like a goodbye.

And when she pulls away, you feel her slip from your fingers like a dream you’re waking up from too soon.

You watch her walk back inside. The door closes behind her. You just stand there staring at her door.

And that’s it.

And all you’re left with is the memory of her hands on your skin, the ghost of her kiss, the sound of her voice, and the quiet ache of what could’ve been— almost .