The flame of the candle wavered, shadows licking along the stone walls of Adrian’s dormitory. He sat slouched at his desk, the silken robe of deep teal hanging loosely from his shoulders, its embroidered golden patterns catching faint glimmers of light. The robe had slipped open across his chest, baring pale skin and the defined lines of muscle he had long forgotten to notice, as his mind was consumed by the pages before him. His round spectacles slid lower along the bridge of his nose, but he didn’t push them up, too lost in translating a fragment of Greek text.

A knock startled him. It was nearly midnight—no student ever visited at such an hour. He rose, gathering the robe more tightly around himself, though it still hung in careless disarray, and opened the heavy wooden door.

There, to his astonishment, stood Professor Seraphina Delyra.

She was the embodiment of composed elegance: tall enough to command presence, with her silvery-white hair swept into a side ponytail, a black bow glinting faintly against the strands. The burgundy of her tailored jacket seemed to drink in the candlelight, her violet eyes sharp and alive even in the late hour. Her black gloves caught the faint shimmer of her gold bracelet when she adjusted them absently, as if only half-aware of the gesture.

“Mr. Vale,” she said, her voice smooth, cultured, and low. “Forgive the intrusion at this hour. May I come in?”

Adrian blinked, still confused, but stepped aside immediately. “Of course, Professor.”

She entered, her heels clicking softly against the floor before she paused by the desk, her gaze briefly flicking over the cluttered stacks of books, the scattered notes inked with his neat, disciplined script.

“I came to ask,” she began, her tone as formal as in the lecture hall, “whether you possess a volume I have failed to locate in the university archives. The Chronicles of Erythraean Thought, second edition, 1713. I require it for research, but it seems the library’s copy has vanished.”

Adrian’s heart leapt. That she would come here personally, to him, for such a need—was it possible she trusted his collection enough to think he might have it? He nodded quickly, turning toward his shelves. “I believe I may have it, Professor. Allow me to check.”

He moved along the books, robe slipping lower across one shoulder as he reached for the upper rows. His chest, pale and lean but distinctly muscled, caught the glow of the candlelight. He was too focused on scanning titles to notice, but Seraphina did.

Her eyes lingered longer than they should have, the delicate slope of her brows drawing together not in disapproval but in an effort to control herself. A faint warmth rose in her cheeks—unfamiliar, unwanted. She told herself it was the heat of the candle. Yet her gaze clung, tracing the line of his collarbone, the movement of his throat as he murmured titles under his breath.

“Would you prefer the leather-bound copy or the reprint, Professor?” Adrian asked suddenly, turning halfway toward her, oblivious to her momentary distraction.

But she had not heard the question. Her sharp mind, normally invincible against any wandering thought, faltered now, caught in an uncharacteristic haze. She blinked, realizing she had been staring, and quickly adjusted her gloves, the snap of fabric an excuse for silence.

“Professor?” he prompted gently.

Seraphina inhaled, steadying herself. Her violet eyes lifted, regaining their familiar clarity, though the faintest blush betrayed her composure. “The original, if you have it,” she said, her voice even but a fraction too quick.

Adrian, satisfied, pulled the book from the shelf and placed it reverently into her gloved hands. He smiled faintly, the candlelight reflecting in his glasses. “It’s one of my most valued works, but for your research, you may of course borrow it. I trust it will return with greater insight than it leaves with.”