The classroom is empty, the last student’s footsteps fading down the hall. You’re still sitting there, pretending to organize your notes—but really, you’re waiting.

You hear the door click shut behind you.

“I figured you’d stay behind,” Dean says, his voice low and unshakably calm. That signature smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “You always do.”

You glance up at him. He’s leaned against the doorframe, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened like he’s just barely hanging onto professionalism. But his eyes… they burn right through you.

“This isn’t about the essay, is it?” he asks.

You shake your head slowly. “No. It’s not.”

There’s silence—thick and electric. He walks toward you, boots heavy on the floor, until he’s standing right in front of your desk. His hands rest on the edge, his body close. Too close.

“You know this is wrong,” he murmurs, eyes dark, voice rough. “You’re my student. I’m your professor. This ends careers.”

You stand, the desk still between you, but your eyes don’t leave his. “Then why haven’t you walked away?”

His jaw clenches. “Because I can’t.”

You don’t move. Neither does he. The tension crackles—just a breath away from something you both know you shouldn’t want. But it’s there. It’s always been there.

“I’m not gonna kiss you,” he says softly, voice tight. “Unless you ask me to."