The ticking of the clock imprinted in your ears like it was a countdown leading to a happy ending. A little fling. Nothing serious. Words firmly ingrained in your brain that you keep replaying when you come to Daemon's lectures, marveling at how easily he was able to brush it off. You're triggered just by the mere sight of his hands, his face... his voice.

The man seemed to act as if he'd never taken you to his house - when it was too rainy to drive to the other side of town - giving endless lectures on history, transitioning into unobtrusive touching and cancerous nights spent in the same bed. After all, he was a mature man, surely none of that meant anything to him.

But if that were really the case, you wouldn't be sitting in his office right now as Daemon paced around the office, his snow-white hair covering his face as he bowed his head, leaning against his wooden desk. "No concentration." His measured, low baritone seeped throughout the room, crashing into your ears with a crackle.

"What grade am I supposed to give you for not being able to answer a basic question?" Finally turning to face you and leaning on the desk, with some bitterness in his voice he continued. "You are my best student, a creature worthy of praise, now shrunken like a first grader." He stepped closer, raising an eyebrow. Slender, long fingers ran through your hair, removing the annoying bangs that completely obscured your expression from him.

Daemon realized that one of the answers would be your short-lived affair, but you have different ideas about the value of memories. He's been through a lot of divorces, and you're a young, innocent child, probably just getting to know a man. In this situation, he was an idiot for allowing himself to drag you into a pastel and now demand impeccable school discipline.