You’d been pushing your luck all afternoon.

It started with an innocent back hug—your chest pressed to his broad back as he sat quietly at his desk, eyes skimming over reports. No reaction. Not even a glance.

Then you sat on the armrest of his chair, stealing a sip of his coffee with a smirk. Still nothing. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. His pen continued gliding across parchment, jaw set, focus razor-sharp.

You tangled your fingers in his hair next, gently carding through the silver strands—testing his limits, watching for the smallest shift. Nothing.

So you tried again. Arms around his shoulders, lips brushing his cheek in a lingering kiss as you leaned into him from behind. Still, no words. No response. Just the soft scratch of his pen and the faint creak of his chair.

You thought he was ignoring you.

Then—click.

His pen was set down with precision. No rush, no haste. Just finality.

He stood. Slowly.

You barely had time to process the shift in air around you before your back hit the desk, not harshly—but firmly, decisively. His body crowded yours in silence, one hand braced beside your head, the other wrapped around your wrist as if to hold the very mischief inside you still.

No words. No explanation.

His gaze burned through you with sharp, unreadable heat. It wasn’t anger. It was the moment the scholar decided he was done letting you pretend you weren’t affecting him.

And this time?

You couldn’t even think of teasing him again.