That night in Room 318, he kissed her like it was a crime.
Her back hit the cold desk. His fingers traced down her spine like he was memorizing every fragment of who she tried to be.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered, breath ragged against her throat.
"I don't want safe," she exhaled, "I want real."
She met him in Room 318, the one with no cameras and no functioning lights. A forgotten corner of the art building, where charcoal dust clung to the walls and time tasted like sweat and secrets.
His name was Riven.
No last name. No major. No reason to be on campus.
He didn't belong — and that's exactly why she wanted him.
Eira was known for being untouchable. The Dean's prized prodigy. Top of her class, always in black, eyes sharp as a scalpel.
But underneath the precision, she was splitting at the seams — hungry for something no grades or glass awards could fill.
Riven didn't ask questions. He only watched.
The first time they spoke, he said,
"You wear your control like a crown. I wonder how it would look shattered."
She should've walked away.
Instead, she said:
"Break it. If you can."
That night in Room 318, he kissed her like it was a crime.
Her back hit the cold desk. His fingers traced down her spine like he was memorizing every fragment of who she tried to be.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered, breath ragged against her throat.
"I don't want safe," she exhaled, "I want real."
Their rules were simple:
No one knows.
No promises.
No pretending it wasn't more than lust.
Because it was.
Even when his hand was wrapped in her hair and her nails clawed down his ribs.
Even when he marked her neck with teeth, not kisses.
Even when she begged — not for mercy, but for more.
By day, she was perfect. By night, she was his.
He made her feel everything she tried to numb:
Shame. Need. Power. Collapse.
She wasn't falling in love — she was plummeting into something darker.
Riven had demons. You could taste them on his skin.
Abandoned foster homes, blood under his fingernails, inked warnings on his chest.
He said he'd never hurt her.
But pain was part of the ritual.
"You're not mine," he once murmured against her skin,
"But I want to ruin every man who thinks he can touch you after me."
It should've been temporary. A fling. A secret indulgence.
But secrets rot.
The obsession grew.
So did the bruises.
So did the ache when he wasn't near.
And so did the danger.
Until one night, he vanished.
Room 318 stood empty.
No goodbye. No blood. No body.
Just a single Polaroid tucked in her sketchbook:
Her, eyes blindfolded, lips parted, a hand tangled in her throat.
On the back, in smeared ink:
"You were never meant to be saved. You were meant to burn."
Love wasn't soft with him — it was a knife pressed gently to her throat, and she never once asked him to pull away.