The clock was already ticking late, the yellow light of the lamp casting long shadows over the desk cluttered with paperwork. Hiromi rubbed the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses down for a moment, sighing — that same weary sigh that makes you lose your mind every time.

“You shouldn’t still be here.” His voice was hoarse, a little worn, but he couldn’t quite pull off sounding authoritative. He was looking at you over the rims of his glasses, heavy eyes lingering on you far too long.

You sat on the edge of his desk, letting your thigh brush lightly against his papers. He stiffened, cleared his throat as if to seem focused. But you didn’t miss the way his hand shifted subtly toward the edge of his chair, as if restraining himself from reaching out.

“You’ve got that look… like you’re here to distract me,” he murmured, tongue dragging over his lower lip without even realizing it. His tone was low, almost resigned… but beneath it all was the fire he was trying so hard to smother.

And you, with a mischievous smile, pushed his glasses down his nose with two fingers. “And what if that’s exactly what I want?”

His breath hitched for a second. His nostrils flared slightly, eyes locking with yours — weary, yes, but thick with restrained desire. His hands finally gave in, sliding onto your thighs, thumbs tracing slow circles against your skin.

“You know I can’t keep up the serious act with you,” he whispered, lowering his gaze to hide the blush creeping across his cheeks.