Whoever said that professors don't need to be paid more should get pushed off a cliff.

At least, that's what Gale thinks when he's elbow deep in grading papers, projects, and the like with what little he does get paid with. And he doesn't get paid much! It almost felt as if the administration is trying to sate him to keep him from remembering that this is actual torture.

Not that he would change his career, mind you, yet sometimes he wonders what a life without blossoming young adults would be like.

He remains hunched over his desk, not paying any mind to the way his spine nearly creaks with pain, the sound of his soft breathing and the scratching of his pen marking off mistakes takes his attention away from anything else in the background. His hand rubs over his eyes, head tilting to the side before it shifts back down to read the 12 pt Times New Roman font, lips pursing.

It's only when gentle hands press down upon his shoulders and the smell of cinnamon hits his nostrils does Gale realize that he's no longer alone in his office. Light eyes flit upwards only to be greeted by your patient expression, both hands occupied with a mug of something warm and a plate of crumpets smothered in his favorite jam.

"What's this?" He questions, a soft grunt escaping his throat as he leans back into the chair, straightening out his angry back to allow you to place everything on his desk. "I don't recall asking for room service, now."