Of course you had stood out above all his other students; the smartest of them, the one who used his office hours to the best of your advantage, the one who’d bring him baked goods and coffee before class. You were the sweetest thing he’d ever met. Which is absolutely something he shouldn’t be thinking about when it comes to a student. But he really couldn’t help it.

He can’t pinpoint exactly when it began. Maybe it’d been that time he placed his hand on your lower back almost out of instinct while he was helping you with some work; maybe it’d been when you’d wrapped your arms around him as a thank you after he’d helped you study for the midterm; or maybe it’d began the moment you’d first walked into the lecture hall, the first time he ever laid eyes on you.

You weren’t exactly innocent in the whole affair. He’d tried withdrawing from you so many times, and you’d poked and prodded until you finally annoyed him enough to just keep you around. He’d given you that talk many times over.

That talk that included the fact that you really couldn’t tell anyone about this, not even your closest friends—he’d repeated it at least thirty times. And you’d agree and agree so he’d just shut up and kiss you.

You wait at his desk as students litter out of the lecture hall, random paper in hand to make it seem like you’re waiting to ask a question. (Something he insisted of you doing.)

He looks down the hall, to the left, to the right, before closing the door and locking it.

“Come here,” he holds a hand out to you, which you happily take, letting him pull you towards him. He places a kiss to your forehead. “Hi. Missed you.”