Her Voice In My Head

The classroom emptied slowly after final period. Chairs scraped, footsteps echoed, and voices faded as the last few students trickled out into the hallway, their laughter carried on the late afternoon breeze. Callum remained still at his desk, a pen clenched between his fingers and tension thick in his jaw. He'd barely taught today. Words came out of his mouth, sure—but his mind had been elsewhere.

He waited.

And of course—

She stayed behind.

Lara.

She lingered like she always did, moving slowly as she collected her books, feigning distraction, her lips pursed in faux concentration. But he saw the way her eyes flicked up to him every few seconds, waiting.

She always waited.

He stood. Quiet. Deliberate. The metal of the desk groaned beneath his hand.

"We need to talk," he said.

She looked up with practiced confusion. "About the homework?"

He shook his head. "No. Don't play games with me. You know what this is about."

She blinked. Big. Wide. Innocent. Too innocent.

"Mr. Hayes, I don't—"

"Cut the crap, Lara." His voice was sharp, the closest to anger he'd ever allowed himself in her presence.

She straightened slightly, but her expression didn't crack. "I really don't know what you're talking about."

He stepped around the desk, closing the space between them.

"You sent something to my apartment."

She tilted her head, lips parting just slightly. "Sent?"

"A delivery. No name. No note. But I don't need handwriting to recognize what it is."

"Then what was it?" she asked quietly.

"You know exactly what it was."

A beat of silence passed.

He watched her closely.

Then—

She smiled. Soft. Almost affectionate.

"I wouldn't do that to you, Mr. Hayes," she said sweetly. "You think I'd send you something so... inappropriate?"

"I know it was you," he snapped. "Don't act innocent."

She stepped closer. Her eyes didn't leave his.

"I think you're projecting," she whispered. "You've been thinking about me. Haven't you?"

Callum's chest tightened.

"That's not what this is."

"Isn't it?" she asked. Her voice was soft. Velvet over a blade. "I know you've been thinking about me."

He stared at her, breathing hard.

Then she leaned closer, her voice barely a breath.

"I wore that all day... thinking of you."

He froze.

Her smile widened, slow and sinful.

"Did you smell it?"

Something inside him snapped.

"Stop," he growled. "Stop doing all of this. Now."

Her smile faltered slightly.

"I mean it, Lara." His voice rose. "This ends today. All these games. All these tricks. You think this is some kind of movie? Some twisted fantasy? I'm done."

She blinked. Once. Then with almost bored calm, she walked past him.

And sat.

On his desk.

Crossed one leg over the other.

Leaning back just enough for her skirt to shift dangerously higher.

Seductive. Composed. Knowing exactly what she was doing.

"I received the letter of transfer yesterday," she said, tracing a fingertip along the edge of his desk.

He narrowed his eyes. "Good."

She reached into her bag.

Pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

Held it out to him.

He took it.

Read it.

His blood went cold.

Transfer request: Denied.

Signed by the principal, Mr. Albert Ramsey.

His brows drew together. "You forged this."

She tilted her head, feigning hurt. "I didn't."

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not." Her voice was calm, almost amused. "That's real. I didn't forge anything."

Callum stared at the paper.

The seal was correct. The signature was real.

He knew the principal's handwriting.

This wasn't fake.

"Why?" he muttered.

She shrugged lightly. "Maybe I'm important. Maybe people listen when I say I want to stay."

"Your parents?"

She smiled again.

But didn't answer.

That silence said more than words ever could.

Influence.

Power.

He looked at the letter again, then at her.

And suddenly the world felt very, very small.

"I want to talk to your parents," he said sharply.

Her smile didn't falter. "Why? You can talk to me. I'm an adult."

He swallowed hard. "This isn't just about age. It's about boundaries. Respect."

She tilted her head like she was listening to a joke unfold. "Oh, but I do respect you, Mr. Hayes." She leaned back on her hands, arching slightly—deliberately. "I think about you all the time. That's a kind of reverence, don't you think?"

His fists clenched. "This isn't funny. It's not flattering. It's messed up."

"And yet," she purred, voice dropping a note, "you're still hard."

His breath hitched. Shame and rage twisted in his gut.

He stepped back, face burning. "You're sick."

She only laughed—low and soft. "I'm just honest. You're the one pretending."

"I'm done with this. Done with you." He turned on his heel, fury bubbling under his skin. "Stay the hell away from me."

She didn't stop him.

Didn't follow.

Just smiled with that same slow, wicked curl as he stormed out the classroom door.

The hallway was mercifully empty. His footsteps echoed as he crossed it, heart pounding, breath uneven.

Outside, the air hit him like a slap. Cold. Unforgiving.

He stalked to his car, fumbled with the keys, and slammed the door behind him.

The silence was deafening.

His hands gripped the steering wheel, white-knuckled.

She knew.

She always knew.

Too much.

And no matter how far he ran, no matter what lines he drew—

She was always two steps ahead.

And part of him...

Hated how much he felt her in his veins.