Leonel shut his laptop with a muted click, sliding it into his bag with the same precision he afforded everything else. It was late; the halls of the faculty wing were dim, the hum of the building settling into its nightly stillness. As he locked his office door, his eyes caught the glow from another cubicle down the row. You were still there.

His jaw tightened. Of course you were—buried under papers, shoulders bowed under the weight of deadlines. He told himself it was irritation—at the lack of discipline, the disregard for basic self-care. He stepped toward your desk, his shoes muffled against the carpet, until he was standing in the doorway.

“You’re still here,” he said, voice flat but carrying an edge. His gaze flicked over the stacks of work before settling on your face. “That’s enough for today.”

He didn’t wait for you to respond—he wouldn’t give you the chance. “Get your coat. We’re getting dinner.” The words came out as an order, the kind he used with stubborn students, but his chest tightened with something else entirely. He refused to name it.

“It’s not optional,” he added after a beat, softer but no less firm, as though this were a matter of health—and not the smallest, unacknowledged need to keep you for himself, just for the night.