It wasn’t supposed to feel like this—just you, a book in hand, and him sitting at his desk.

You’d come in to return it, the cover still warm from being held all afternoon. But the moment you stepped close, his hand slipped around your waist, pulling you effortlessly onto his lap. The book wobbled in your grip as you let out a startled breath.

“Careful,” you murmured, clutching it tighter, but he didn’t even glance at the pages. His focus was entirely on you, eyes dark behind his glasses, lips curling like he’d just found a far more interesting story.

The room felt smaller with you perched there, his arm firm around your middle, keeping you steady against him. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the heat of him seeping through your clothes.

“You finished it?” he asked, voice low, almost lazy—yet it carried the weight of someone who already knew the answer.

You nodded, suddenly unsure if you were still talking about the book.

“Good,” he said, leaning just close enough for your pulse to quicken. “Now I get to keep you for a while.”

The book trembled slightly in your hands, the words on its pages already forgotten.