Nevermore slept.
The halls, so loud in the day with clashing egos and echoing laughter, now lay silent. Only the ancient stones breathed, whispering secrets of centuries past.
Dirk walked them without sound, his steps deliberate, his senses drinking in every shadow. He had intended to return to his room. But fate—or perhaps something more deliberate—shifted his course.
"Mr. Sanchez."
Her voice came from behind him. Calm. Smooth.
Authority wrapped in silk.
He turned slowly, finding Principal Larissa Weems standing beneath the pale glow of a stained-glass window. Her posture, as always, was perfect; her eyes, however, carried something different tonight. Less administrator. More… woman.
---
An Invitation
"It seems you have a habit of wandering," she said, lips curving faintly.
"And you," Dirk replied evenly, "a habit of finding me."
Her smile deepened. "A talent of mine. One of many."
They stood like that for a moment—two tall figures, both commanding in presence. Weems, with her statuesque elegance, silver hair gleaming like moonlight. Dirk, towering, built like a force of nature, yet still radiating mystery.
"Walk with me," she said softly, but it wasn't a request.
Dirk inclined his head. "Lead the way."
---
The Stroll
They moved through the hall, silence pressing between them. Eventually, Weems broke it.
"You've unsettled Wednesday."
Dirk smirked. "You say that as if it's a crime."
"For her, it's… an event." Weems glanced at him, studying his unreadable face. "Few people are capable of cracking that mask. You did it without effort."
"Not without effort," he corrected. "Without fear."
Her steps slowed. That answer intrigued her more than she cared to admit.
---
The Office
Weems guided him into her office, closing the heavy doors behind them. The fire crackled warmly in the hearth, casting long shadows across shelves lined with leather-bound tomes.
She moved behind her desk, then—unexpectedly—perched gracefully on its edge instead of sitting formally.
Her eyes fixed on his. "You don't fit here, Dirk. You're too polished, too… deliberate. Students fumble, stumble, grow. You stride through these halls as if you've already conquered them."
Dirk met her gaze steadily. "Maybe I have."
Her lips parted, then curved upward. "Dangerous words, Mr. Sanchez."
---
The Push and Pull
He stepped closer, his height eclipsing her seated form. Yet she didn't flinch. If anything, her chin lifted, eyes burning with challenge.
"You seek control," Dirk said quietly. "Every word, every gesture, every student in this academy. You weave webs, and most are too blind to see them."
"And you?" she asked softly.
"I see everything."
For the first time in years, Larissa Weems felt the ground shift beneath her carefully constructed composure. She drew in a breath, steady but sharp, as his presence closed in around her.
"You're dangerous," she whispered.
"And you," Dirk countered, "are drawn to danger."
---
The Crack
Their eyes locked. Neither moved for several long seconds. The fire popped, filling the silence with heat.
Finally, Weems exhaled, breaking the tension with a low chuckle. "You'll be the death of my carefully curated order, Dirk Sanchez."
His reply was smooth, inevitable.
"Then maybe your order needs to die."
The words lingered, heavy, intimate.
Weems didn't deny it.
---
Retreat
She rose, reclaiming her height, smoothing her skirt as though that could smooth the moment.
"Return to your room," she said softly, but her voice lacked its usual bite of command. "Before I forget I'm your headmistress."
Dirk inclined his head with a faint, dangerous smile, then turned toward the door.
But as he left, her eyes followed him, silver and shadow mingling with something she hadn't felt in decades.
Desire.
Not for his body—though that temptation was undeniable.
But for the chaos he brought.