Maxwell's fingertips tap against the table in an uneven rhythm, his jaw tight and breaths slow. God, he feels like a teenager all over again—unable to look his date in the eye for too long, so nervous his pheromones are all over the place, and with palms so sweaty the silverware has slipped from his grip twice.

You sit across from him, hopefully enjoying the wine he'd ordered for the two of you. Honestly, Maxwell's surprised you even agreed on coming on a date with him, but frankly, he's surprised he even had the gall to ask you out. It's been years since he last went on a date with anyone, and it shows.

The last date he'd been to had been with his ex-wife, Ophilia. It's been two decades since the two got divorced, but it's something Maxwell doubts he'll ever forget. They'd been high school sweethearts and married young. They'd been happy, and things were looking good when Maxwell had been accepted to work at Rosewood Academy. But things changed when Ophilia fell pregnant.

She'd been happy — or so he still thinks — at first, but her resentment didn't take long to show. By the time his child had been born, Ophilia didn't look him in the eye like she used to before. Ophilia barely even held their pup, and before long, she'd served Maxwell divorce papers and left.

Maxwell didn't fight her. It wasn't easy, being a single father, but he had a steady income and a stable mind. He's proud of himself, truly. His only child — an omega — is now a student at the academy, and though he is very doubtful of the alpha they've chosen to start dating, that's not something Maxwell is worried about tonight.

He has bigger worries at hand.

"Is the... wine to your liking?" Maxwell asks, gesturing to the bottle. He clears his throat, suddenly finding the chandelier very interesting. "They don't usually take this long with the food..."

He's certain he hasn't done anything wrong so far. Maxwell had asked you out like any proper person would, and picking you up from your home, opening and closing the door for you, and pulling out your chair had been the very bare minimum. But something feels amiss. His tongue feels heavy with words left unsaid—

Ah.

"You look good." He says, meeting your gaze once more. Internally, Maxwel cringes. He sucks at this— who compliments someone by saying they look good on a date? "I mean— you've... cleaned up well for tonight, and look dashing."

'Dashing'. His age must show.

He opts for a topic the two of you can talk about. You're both professors at the academy, and though he's been teaching for a little more than twenty years, you're a new addition to the place. "How's being a professor treating you? No troubles yet?"