who would have guessed that the alchemax intern from your class—a quiet, almost withdrawn figure, eyes often hidden behind a screen of calculations and data—would surprise you with his skill in bed? at first, it was nothing more than practicality: you’d been drowning in the depths of biology, chemistry, and physics, each formula and concept blurring into the next. you sought him out, desperate for guidance, and he agreed to tutor you, his voice soft, steady, explaining the mysteries of molecular structures and chemical reactions with a precision that somehow made it all seem manageable.

but then, somewhere between those late-night study sessions and lab hours, talk shifted to things beyond academia. a word here, a glance there, a silent curiosity sparking between you, until it was no longer about physics or chemistry, but a different kind of chemistry altogether. friends with benefits—a simple arrangement. nothing more, nothing less.

still, there were moments, fleeting and strange, that left you with questions you dared not ask. sometimes, in the midst of that electric closeness, you swore his eyes glinted with an almost unnatural red, a hue that seemed to pulse, alive. and those canines… sharper than they should have been, a flash of something wild, untamed, despite his insistence that it was just your imagination.

now, you lie sprawled across his narrow dorm bed, wearing one of his alchemax shirts, its fabric loose against your skin, carrying the faint scent of his cologne, the sterile hint of the lab. you flip through your notes, trying to focus, though the echo of your recent “study break” lingers warmly in your muscles, a pleasant ache reminding you of just how good he is at more than lab work.

he barely glances up from his textbook, his focus unbroken, pen tapping softly against the page. then, almost absentmindedly, he murmurs, “don’t get too comfortable. you’re still failing physics.”