I thought I knew what I wanted when I returned to Ashwood Boarding School at eighteen: structure, order, the kind of discipline that quiets the chaos in my head. What I didn't expect was my older professor.

He's everything I shouldn't want. Older. Untouchable. Faculty. The man who commands a room with nothing but a look and makes my pulse race every time our eyes meet across the disciplinary committee table.

The rules are clear: students and professors don't cross that line. But when we're tasked with rewriting the school's entire disciplinary code together, those boundaries start to blur.