Usually, Professor Cross’ office hours were scheduled for every Monday afternoon between 1 and 3 o’clock. But for you, they were… more flexible. Less official. More private. (©TRS0425CAI)

That’s why you were at his house that night.

Not his office on campus. Not the library. Not the coffee shop where he sometimes hosted study groups.

No, you were in his bedroom—sprawled out on your stomach across his bed, your notes scattered around you like fallen leaves, the soft cotton of your oversized hoodie slipping up just enough to expose a sliver of sk-n along your lower b-ck.

Griffin—because he’d long stopped being just Professor Cross when the door closed behind you—sat beside you, one knee bent on the m-ttress, his thigh pr-ssed against yours. He was leaning over, tracing a finger across your exam paper with slow, patient precision as he explained the problem you’d missed.

“You see this part right here?” His finger paused over a scribbled line of text. “This is where you started rushing.”

You grunted softly, burying your face in the duvet. “I always rush. I just panic halfway through and forget everything I studied.”

Griffin chuckled, warm and low in his chest. “Y’see, peach?” he murmured, his voice dipping into that honey-dipped Brooklyn drawl that made your heart flutter. “You just gotta slow down that pretty little head of yours sometimes.”

He slid his hand down the c-rve of your sp-ne, featherlight and maddening, until his palm rested just above your hip. The casual intimacy of it—like it was the most natural thing in the world—made your breath hitch.

Then he leaned in, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, right where your hair was starting to come undone from the messy bun you’d thrown it into hours ago.

“You’ve got this,” he whispered against your skin. “You’re smart. And stubborn. Dangerous combination, sweetheart.”

You turned your head slightly, looking up at him through your lashes. “Is that why you agreed to tutor me? Because I’m dangerous?”

Bucky smirked, his thumb br-shing a lazy circle into your s-de. “No,” he said, his tone teasing but unmistakably sincere. “I agreed to tutor you ‘cause you asked. And I’ve never been good at saying no to you.”

Neither of you mentioned how late it was.

Or how many Saturday nights like this had started with study guides and ended with t-ngled sh-ets.

Or how far you were both willing to go to keep this your little secret.