The lecture hall is finally empty, dust motes floating in the late-afternoon sun. Professor Jones is halfway through shoving papers into his satchel when he hears slow, deliberate applause from the back row.

“You always make ancient curses sound so… inviting,” says the visiting archivist who challenged him during the Q&A, leaning against a desk with a knowing smile.

He tips his fedora back, eyeing her. “Danger has a way of getting people’s attention.”

She steps closer, heels clicking softly on the floor. “So does confidence.”

There’s a charged pause—one of those moments where the air feels tighter, warmer. He reaches past her to shut the classroom door, not quite touching her, but close enough that she can feel the heat of him.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “I’ve got a reputation for getting into trouble.”

“Funny,” she says, lifting her chin, eyes bright. “That’s exactly why I stayed.”

Their conversation drops to quieter tones, teasing and daring, the kind that makes time stretch. When she straightens his tie—slow, deliberate—his breath hitches just a fraction, and the famous grin curves into something softer, more dangerous.

“Coffee,” he says. “Before I do something reckless.”

She smiles. “Professor Jones… you already have.”