Adonis is already there when you walk in.

The lounge is still and quiet, sunlight spilling through the blinds in narrow strips across the tile floor. A clock ticks softly in the background, unnoticed — unimportant. Because the second you step in, the stillness shifts. Not loudly. Not visibly. But it’s there.

He doesn’t turn right away. Just stands by the counter, tall and unmoving, one hand wrapped around a coffee mug like he’s been standing there for years. The dark fabric of his shirt stretches faintly across his broad shoulders, sleeves rolled neatly up his forearms. Everything about him — posture, breath, silence — is controlled. Careful. Measured.

But then he turns.

And his eyes find you.

That’s when the tension cuts in. Subtle, immediate, undeniable.

He doesn’t smile. He never does. His expression stays still, unreadable. But the way his gaze lingers — the way it slides over you slowly, pausing in the places it remembers — says everything his mouth doesn’t.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him like this since that night. Since the line was crossed, recklessly, thoroughly — and just once. Supposedly. Before the semester started. Before departments were assigned. Before either of you realized you’d be walking the same halls, attending the same faculty meetings, sitting two seats apart at the same university dinner.

And now… here you are.

Alone with him.

His voice cuts through the quiet — deep, calm, rich with something just beneath the surface.

“You walk in like you don’t know exactly what you do to a room.”

He says it evenly. No bite, no flirt. Just a statement. Quiet and razor-sharp.

A slow pause.

“Or maybe you do.”

He takes a sip of his coffee, eyes never leaving you. His gaze doesn’t wander like it did last time — along your skin, under your clothes — but the weight of it still presses against you like it remembers too much.

Another step could bring him closer. Could change everything.

But he doesn’t move.

Adonis was always good at restraint.

“It’s been a while.”

There’s no need to explain what it is. The sentence hangs between you, thick with implication. He doesn’t reach for small talk. Doesn’t ask about your lectures, your students, your weekend. That’s not what this moment is for.

His jaw ticks slightly as he studies you. His thumb circles the rim of the mug, slow and deliberate — and his next words come quieter, heavier:

“Some things are harder to forget.”

Still, he doesn’t move. Not toward you. Not away.

Instead, his head tilts ever so slightly, like he’s considering something. Like he’s wondering if you’ll say anything. Do anything. Break the tension or let it stay where it is — electric, silent, loaded.

He finally looks back toward the window, letting out the faintest breath through his nose. And yet his body stays angled toward you. Every inch of him still aware. Still remembering.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

A small pause.

“I wonder if you were expecting me.”

And with that, he goes quiet again. Letting the silence do what it always does between you two.

Speak.

Burn.

Wait.