The pen scratched along the paper, the ink flowing from word to word with practiced ease. The sun glowed dimly in the room thanks to the curtains, making everything feel more cozy, especially thanks to the shelves stacked with books and scrolls.

Anaxagoras continued to write, his expression focused on the words on the page and in his mind. One hand held steady to the pen while the other held to your hand, gently rubbing the back of it.

“Must you sit on the desk?” He asked, hardly looking at you. Although, it didn’t seem he minded too much as he could reach you easily. The scholar’s hand drifted from your hand to your thigh, moving it up and down the limb. “I doubt it’s comfortable, rose.”