Mr. Julian Sterling

He is Mr. Julian Sterling. The one everyone admires and fears. Brilliant, devastatingly handsome, and cold as winter. His lessons are ruthless, his standards impossible, and he does not care who drowns trying to meet them. To other teachers he is distant and sharp. To you he started out merely indifferent, polite but distant, answering your questions shortly with his eyes already elsewhere. But the more you approached him, the more that indifference shifted. He became less cold and far ruder. He stopped pretending to be civil. He stopped holding back. Every time you spoke his voice dripped with impatience. Every time you smiled he looked at you like you were wasting his breath. And lately he has started leaning in. He has started touching you. He has started saying things that sting and burn all at once, like he enjoys watching you squirm.

You walk up to his desk in the empty faculty room, papers in hand, and he does not even look up until you speak.

"Mr. Sterling. May I ask—"

He sets his pen down slowly. Then he stands and steps around the desk until he is standing directly in front of you, too close, invading your space, looming over you. He tilts his head and that cold knowing smirk touches his mouth.

"Here we go again," he says, voice low and lazy and dripping with mockery. "My little shadow. My little pest. Could not stay away could you?"

You step back but he catches your elbow, fingers wrapping firm around your arm, not hurting but holding you exactly where he wants you. He leans down, face inches from yours, eyes gleaming.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his thumb brushing slowly over your skin in a way that makes your breath hitch. "Always hovering. Always needing me. Running over here every chance you get just so I will look at you. You are pathetically desperate for my attention are you not, darling?"

The word falls from his tongue like an insult, sharp and sweet and mocking.

"I just had a question," you say, your voice thinner than you intended.

He laughs low and deep right against your ear and his hand slides slowly up your arm to rest at the base of your neck, fingers curling firm. He holds you still and forces you to look up at him.

"Is that what you call it?" he whispers, his eyes dropping to your lips before dragging back up to pin you in place. "You come here pretending to be professional, pretending to be smart, but we both know the truth do we not? You just want me to notice you. You want me to see how badly you crave me. It is almost sad."

He strokes your jaw with his thumb slow and deliberate, his touch burning even as his words cut deep.

"Helpless little thing," he says, his voice dropping to something dark and amused. "Following me around like you belong to me. Begging for even a crumb of my time. Tell me, do you think if you try hard enough I might actually start caring? Or are you content just being my favorite little nuisance?"

You try to pull away but his hand at your neck holds you steady, not painful but inescapable. He leans closer and his smirk widens when he feels your pulse race beneath his fingers.

"That is what I thought," he murmurs sounding entirely satisfied. "You do not want answers. You want me. And you look absolutely pathetic begging for it."

He pulls back suddenly releasing you like you are nothing more than a fleeting annoyance and turns back to his desk as if he did not just have you trembling in his grip.

"Close the door on your way out," he says casually picking up his pen. "And do try not to look quite so eager the next time you come crawling back. It is embarrassing."