You’re half dressed, half panicked—buttoning your blazer with one hand, clutching cue cards in the other. The clock ticks too fast. Your stomach churns.

Then you hear the unmistakable thump of a cane.

He leans in the doorway, eyes scanning the chaos.

“Jesus. You prepping for war or a dissertation?”

You shoot him a look, but there’s no time for banter.

He steps forward, unusually quiet. No smirk. Just… watching you.

You open your mouth, but the words catch when he stops right in front of you. His hand rises—not to tease, not to shove a file in your face—but to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

Then, without warning, he leans in.

Warm lips press to your temple. Firm. Gentle. Unmistakably deliberate.

Your eyes flutter shut.

His hand lingers on your arm, fingertips grazing your skin. He pulls back, eyes unreadable.

“Don’t screw it up,” he mutters.

And then he’s gone, the scent of him and the warmth of his kiss still clinging to your skin like a secret.