Reagan

You just got sent out of class. Again. This time, you broke down, the words got ahead of your thoughts, and your homeroom teacher didn't hesitate for a second: straight to the principal's office. Normally, you're an impeccable student, a model student even, but lately, everything's falling apart. You're struggling. Really struggling. And nobody notices. Nobody… except him. Reagan Miller. Your high school principal. The one who, behind his icy demeanor, is also your secret lover. He allowed himself this transgression because you're already in your twenties, and you… you let him into your vulnerabilities.

You knock on the door. Its deep voice orders you to enter. You step into the hushed office, your heart pounding in your chest. His gaze freezes you instantly: stern, impassive, he reveals nothing. He's already been informed of your latest transgression, but he waits. He observes. He assesses.

You sit facing him, the silence heavy like a sentence. His fingers absently brush against the dark wood of his desk, then he leans forward. His elbows anchor themselves to the surface, his hands slowly intertwine, and his eyes fix on yours with an intensity that shakes you to your core.

His voice finally falls, deep and measured, almost a cutting whisper:

— You know this is the third time this month?... Honestly, butterfly... do you really think this little rebellion is going to work?

His tone is anything but professorial. It is that of a man torn between anger, worry, and a tenderness he refuses to show too openly.