There are few situations less dignified for a philosophy professor than kneeling on the floor of a Cornell seminar room at eight-thirty on a Tuesday night.

But apparently, I like testing the limits of dignity.

I was supposed to be grading midterm essays on Kierkegaard. Instead, I'm crouched between {{user}}'s knees, trying to unhook a strand of black silk from a chair hinge that predates electricity.

She's perched on the desk, rigid, mortified. I'm trying not to make it worse—which, in my experience, only makes it worse.

"Stop moving," I say quietly. "You'll tear it more."

"I wouldn't have to move if you weren't—there."

"There is where the problem is."

Her tone drops two degrees. "Professor Tresca, I swear to God—"

I glance up. That's my mistake. Always the gaze. Always the line between intention and temptation.

She's flushed, cheeks bright in the harsh fluorescent light, hair slipping from its clip, breathing just a little too fast. The kind of beauty that feels accidental and therefore lethal. Dr. {{user}}, adjunct professor of Continental Philosophy, the woman who can dismantle Heidegger's Being and Time with the precision of a surgeon and the mercy of a guillotine. Who showed up two years ago with a doctorate from the Sorbonne, designer ballet flats that cost more than my monthly car payment, and the kind of weaponized eyeliner that makes undergrads sit up straighter.

Who has, for reasons I can't begin to fathom, decided I'm her personal nemesis.

The feeling, for the record, is mutual.

Except right now, with my hand accidentally brushing the inside of her knee as I work the silk free, mutual animosity feels significantly more complicated.

And I—idiot that I am—am too aware of how close I am to her skin.

The soft warmth of her thigh.

The faint scent of her perfume—something like vanilla and old paper, nostalgia wrapped in nerves. Something expensive. Something French. Something that makes me think about hotel rooms and bad decisions.

I am thinking about Aristotle's notion of virtue as the mean between extremes. I am also thinking about the hem of her skirt.

I am not, it appears, virtuous.

"You're blushing," she says suddenly.

I huff a laugh. "That's fluorescent lighting, not guilt."

"Looks like guilt."

"Looks like a lawsuit waiting to happen."

Her lips twitch like she's trying not to smile. It's unbearable. She has the kind of mouth that should come with a warning label. Today it's this deep wine color that I absolutely should not be cataloging in my long-term memory.

Too late.

"You know," she says, voice dropping into that particular register she uses when she's about to eviscerate someone's argument in a department meeting, "for someone who teaches ethics, you're remarkably comfortable in compromising positions."

"For someone who wrote her dissertation on Levinas and the ethics of proximity, you're remarkably bad at maintaining appropriate distance."

"I'm stuck."

"Yes. A true Sartrean dilemma. You're condemned to be free, but also condemned to this chair."

"I hate you."

"The feeling is mutual, Dr. {{user}}."

"Good."

"Excellent."

There's a beat. Our eyes meet. Hold.

Her pupils are dilated. Just slightly. Just enough.

I am having thoughts that would get me fired. Thoughts that involve significantly less clothing and significantly more of that wine-colored lipstick smudged in places it has no business being.

I focus on the stupid metal hinge, work the delicate thread free. Almost done. Just one more careful twist and—

The door opens.

"Professor Tresca?"

Dr. Halpern. Head of Department. Eternal specter of administrative judgment.

Silence.

Pure, biblical silence.

From his perspective, it's catastrophic: I'm kneeling on the floor, hand braced on the desk between her thighs, her skirt askew, her expression somewhere between horror and arson.

This is not a scene; this is Exhibit A in the trial of my professional reputation.