Over the following days, Principal Jeon Jungkook methodically burrowed into his new role. He toured labs smelling sharply of formaldehyde and ozone, inspected dusty libraries, and endured endless introductory meetings where faculty nervously adjusted their ties. Yet, Professor Kim Taehyung’s presence lingered like heavy perfume in every corridor.

Whispers chased him – fragments caught outside lecture halls, murmured warnings from senior professors avoiding eye contact. She holds tutorials in her office with the blinds down… The sharp scent of her skin seemed to cling to the worn leather chairs in the staff lounge. Heard Park from Accounting barely walked straight after lunch. The hushed reverence in the male student’s voice when describing her anatomy lectures – "Professor Kim… she demonstrates cellular mitosis using… metaphors…" – echoed mockingly in Kook’s skull during budget reviews. Most jarring were the crude specifics, shared with leering grins: That pink pussy? Like velvet wrapped steel, man. Tightest grip ever. The vulgarity felt like a physical blow each time he overheard it, tightening his gut and accelerating his pulse. He saw it everywhere – a student hastily smoothing his shirt after leaving her office, a janitor whistling suggestively outside Bio Lab 3, the lingering glances exchanged whenever her name was mentioned. The university seemed saturated with her scandalous aura.

One rainy Tuesday afternoon, trapped reviewing disciplinary files in his office, Kook heard muffled laughter and rhythmic thumping from the adjacent seminar room – Tae’s scheduled ‘Advanced Reproductive Strategies’ review session. Against his better judgment, he walked silently to the connecting door, left slightly ajar. The humid scent of wet coats mingled with… vanilla musk.

Through the crack, he saw her. Tae perched on the edge of a heavy oak table, legs crossed, swinging one glittering heel. Her blouse, unbuttoned dangerously low, revealed the swell of lace beneath. She held a large, vibrantly colored orchid in her hand, tracing its intricate labellum with a fingertip. "...And this," she murmured, her voice low and intimate despite the room’s acoustics, "is where deception becomes seduction. Mimicking the promise of nectar, drawing the pollinator deep..." Her gaze swept over the rapt, mostly male students, landing momentarily on the door crack where Kook stood frozen.

A slow, knowing smile touched her lips before she turned back to the orchid, her fingertip stroking deeper into the flower’s throat. "Ensuring," she breathed into the charged silence, "complete… penetration… of the reproductive structure." A collective intake of breath.

Kook stumbled back, the image burned into his retinas – the flower, her fingertip, that knowing smirk. The rumours weren't whispers anymore; they were a deafening roar in his ears, intertwined with the phantom scent of her skin and the vivid, unsettling truth of her power. His pristine office suddenly felt suffocatingly small.

Later, cornering her near the humming bio-refrigeration units where the sharp tang of preservatives couldn't quite mask her perfume, Kook attempted sternness.

"Professor Kim," he began, voice clipped, "your methods… the reports..." Tae leaned back against a chilled metal door, letting her lab coat gape open. Beneath, a sheer black camisole clung to every curve. Her pink lips curved into a lazy smile, unbothered by the sterile chill.

"Principal Jeon," she purred, tilting her head, her dark eyes glittering with amusement, "concerned about pollination techniques? Or," her gaze dragged slowly down his rigid body, lingering deliberately at his waistline, "perhaps you're curious about the practical applications?"

A flush ignited beneath Kook’s collar, spreading rapidly. The chemical smells vanished, replaced by her overwhelming warmth. He couldn't look away from her lips. "Discipline," he choked out, the word sounding weak, absurd.

Tae pushed off the door, closing the distance with predatory grace. Her breath ghosted warm against his jawline as she murmured, voice thick with honeyed suggestion, “Principal Kook… discipline requires tension."

Her fingertip, the same one that had explored the orchid, traced a feather-light path along his tensed forearm. She leaned impossibly closer, her breast brushing the lapel of his stiff jacket. Her whisper dropped lower, rougher, intimate and terrifyingly direct. "Ever wonder," she breathed, the scent of her skin flooding his senses, "what my honey tastes like?"

Kook’s mind blanked. Sweat beaded on his temple. His carefully constructed authority crumbled under the sheer, visceral assault of her proximity and her words. He stood paralyzed, drowning in the musk and vanilla promise, the sterile hum of the refrigerators mocking his useless rigidity. Control was slipping through his fingers like melting ice.