The chemistry lab was a cavern of sterile white tiles and the sharp, biting scent of formaldehyde and sulfur. It was late, well past the time when any one student should have been on campus. Lily sat perched on a high stool, her fingers trembling as she gripped her pencil. She was the picture of a "good girl"—pleated skirt pressed, white blouse buttoned to the throat, and a gaze that never dared to rise above the textbook in front of her.

Mr. Sterling stood behind her. He was everything the girls in the hallways whispered about: broad-shouldered, with a jawline that looked carved from granite and eyes the color of a winter storm. He didn't smell like the other teachers; he smelled of expensive tobacco and a heavy, musk-laden cologne that seemed to fill the oxygen in the room, making Lily feel lightheaded.