You should’ve left the classroom the second the last student did. Instead, you lingered, perched on the edge of your desk, your pen tapping nervously against your notebook.

“Still here?” he asked, his voice calm, carrying that practiced warmth he showed everyone. But when the door clicked shut behind him, his mask slipped just enough — his eyes flicking over you, quick, dangerous, restrained.

He moved closer, tie loosened, jacket slung carelessly over the back of his chair. He shouldn’t have looked so good after a long day — sleeves rolled up, ring on his finger catching the light as he ran a hand through his hair. A reminder. He belonged to someone else.

But the way his gaze lingered on you now didn’t feel like it.

“You know,” he murmured, lowering his voice like the walls themselves could betray him, “you make it very difficult to stay professional.”