20:03.
Only one light was on.
The main overheads of the Palmer Hall conference room had been switched off. Just one desk lamp—long-necked and surgical—spilled a pool of sterile white across the edge of the black meeting table. It sliced his face in half, casting one side into sharp relief, the other into shadow. He sat there in his usual composed sprawl: suit still on, cuffs rolled just high enough to look precise, posture relaxed but ready. Like a man awaiting a private trial with rules he'd written himself.
You stood at the door for a few seconds.
And did not move.
This wasn't your first time alone in a closed space. But it was the first time he'd arrived before you.
That meant something. It meant he wasn't reacting anymore.
He was setting the stage.
He'd chosen the lighting. The angle. The pacing.
He was the architect tonight.
And you—the one who always ran the game—had just been outplayed.
You stepped inside.
Click.
The sound of the door shutting echoed like a trap springing.
The air shifted.
Denser now. More deliberate.
You didn't sit. You walked to the opposite end of the light and met his eyes directly.
"You know what this setup qualifies as, right?" your voice was low and rough from the late hour—coated in restraint so fine it was almost seductive. "A professor inviting a student into a closed room. Dim lighting. No witnesses. Power boundaries blurred. Latent paternalistic overtones. A textbook violation of ethical distance."
He looked at you with that maddening calm—utterly unbothered.
"I teach that."
You shrugged and finally sank into the chair. Legs crossed. Back straight. Movements slow, deliberate, defiant.
"You did well today," he said, same as always. Level.
Too level.
"You're late to the party, Professor," you replied, voice soft but cutting. "I don't run on your approval anymore."
"What do you run on?"
"Myself." You gave a dry, short laugh. "And Monster. A little shame. And a pathological hatred of failure."
"Sounds like a pre-battle survival kit."
"You gave me the war, didn't you?"
You leaned in, elbows on the table.
"You always did. You gave me theory, gave me weapons, gave me a framework—and then threw me into your classroom to see if I could hold the line. Maybe see if I'd tear the whole thing down."
"You've always torn it down beautifully."
"But I didn't today."
"Why?"
You didn't answer right away.
Your eyes flicked to the lamp. You suddenly felt tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
"Because I didn't want you to see me still waiting for your damn frown." You paused. The sentence weighed more than you thought it would. "I didn't want you thinking you still get to decide how I write."
He didn't nod. He didn't object. He just said:
"But didn't you just say you don't need my approval?"
"Exactly."
You smiled.
"So I made the choice. I gave you nothing today."
"But you came."
There it was.
A nail, lightly tapped—right into the softest part of your intention.
You said nothing.
But you'd come.
Dressed down, sure—but precise. Dark dress. Cinched waist. Low black heels sharp enough to mean something. A scent with a bitter citrus finish that only revealed itself when you turned your head just right.
You came. Even your perfume had intent.
"So?" you said, finally, slipping back into your dominant register. "You planning to lead this dance tonight?"
"Not lead." He met your eyes. "Respond."
"To what?"
"To what you've been daring me to admit."
The air went still.
You didn't ask what. You knew he hated when someone rushed his tempo.
So you waited. You wanted to watch; See if the so-called paragon of academic neutrality would finally break his own doctrine.
"You're scared of me," you said, abruptly.
Switched lanes.
Drove straight into his blind spot.
"You're scared I like you. More scared I'll win. But what terrifies you the most is that you like me—and still can't stop needing to control me."
You leaned in. Sharper now.
"You're not loving me. You're training me."
His brow twitched. Just slightly.
"You said I gave a good presentation—because I sounded like you. You favor me—because I am like you. Ruthless. Precise. Cold. But God forbid I ever get close enough to demand something real. Because then you'd have to respond. And that's your greatest fear."
You dropped your voice.
"That time you touched my head... I wanted to believe it was comfort. But you know what I actually thought?"
"Obedience training."
"You patted the falcon," you said, "then prayed it wouldn't bite."
He looked at you then. Really looked.
And for the first time, you saw something fracture—thin, spiderwebbed across the icy surface of his restraint.
"I never wanted to tame you."
"Oh, Professor," you almost laughed. "Of course you did. Every act of affection you've ever given me had an expiration date and a behavioral clause attached. You let me be wild—but only under supervision. You say it's for my protection, but you're protecting yourself. From imperfection. From obligation. From being someone who feels."
You leaned even closer.
"You said I didn't know what I wanted."
Your voice softened, almost kind.
"But do you?"
He didn't speak.
Something between you stretched tight—glass-thin and dangerous.
"You're not calm," you whispered. "You're a coward. You've spent so long perfecting control that the very idea of desire embarrasses you."
He stood.
Planted both hands on the table.
Leaning over you.
You didn't flinch. You just looked up.
"If you touch my head again, I swear I'll bite."
He stared. Then sighed. Quiet. Deep.
"Then bite."
"I will."
He didn't move.
His hands remained on the table, knuckles white. His shadow fell across your lap—long, severe—but still a hair's breadth from actually crossing the line.
He watched you, and for a moment it felt like every want, every second guess, every spiraling restraint circled in his eyes before being swallowed whole.
Then:
"All those things you wrote," he said finally, voice level but low. "What were you trying to make me admit?"
You blinked.
Something inside you tightened.
"We both know what," he added.
"Your papers are brilliant. Your logic razor-sharp. But you used too much emotion."
"I know."
You said it so quietly it barely counted as sound.
"I wrote them that way to make you lose composure. Even just for a second."
That was it. That was your war cry in disguise.
You hadn't built those essays to impress.
You'd built them to ambush.
He closed his eyes. Briefly. Like he'd finally allowed himself to feel the cost.
"You don't know how afraid I am," he said, "of the part of me that could falter."
You watched him. And for the first time—didn't feel the thrill of triumph.
No.
You felt something dangerously close to compassion.
You exhaled a laugh, bitter and quiet.
"Well.
You're finally not perfect."
And for some reason...
It hurt a little.
You didn't move.
Didn't smile.
That sentence sounded like a victory.
But it didn't land like one.
You leaned back in your chair. Eyes on the edge of the table.
He didn't sit.
He didn't run.
He stood at the edge of a choice—one foot in structure, one foot in surrender.
"What are you going to do now?"
Your voice was soft. Almost domestic.
He straightened. Looked at you. His face had changed.
Less commander. More man.
"I want to hold you," he said.
Your brow lifted. "Now?"
He nodded. "Now."
Your eyes flickered. The tone shifted.
From defense to provocation.
"You're really going to get yourself fired."
"I have tenure."
"...Fuck you."
You stood. Slowly.
Not teasing. Not seductive.
Just precise.
You moved in front of him, smoothed your skirt, and sat on the edge of the table.
Knees brushing his.
Hands at your side. Not touching.
Your gaze met his, flat and dangerous.
"If you don't move," you said quietly, "I'll assume everything you just said was bullshit."
So he moved.
Not suddenly.
But with the precision of a man who had already made peace with consequence.
He placed his hands on your waist. Lightly. But your balance tilted anyway—because after all the war games, this was contact that actually landed.
"...I'm going to report you to the ethics board."
He didn't let go.
His palm slipped under the edge of fabric, no rush, just heat and quiet insistence. When he looked at you, it wasn't as a professor. Or a partner.
It was something more dangerous.
"You should," he said, voice low. "I'd love to hear how they define 'non-institutional inducement of compliant submission.'"
You blinked.
Didn't smile.
Didn't slap.
Just said:
"You're such a fucking bastard."
He tilted his head.
"You're worse."
You didn't argue.
Because he wasn't wrong.
You were each other's kind of problem.
And for the first time, neither of you was pretending not to like it.