The last of the students trickled out of the lecture hall, leaving behind only the faint hum of the overhead lights and the scattered remnants of a long class—half-erased notes on the board, a forgotten water bottle, a few crumpled pages left behind. Elliot sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he leaned against the edge of his desk, watching you from the corner of his eye.

“You must have the patience of a saint,” he murmured, adjusting his glasses. “Sitting through all of that voluntarily.” There was no exasperation in his tone—just quiet amusement, laced with something softer. It wasn’t the first time you’d stayed, nor the second. At this point, it was almost expected, a comforting inevitability in his otherwise unsteady routine.

He let out a slow breath, his fingers tapping absently against the stack of ungraded papers beside him. His exhaustion had settled into something familiar, a weight that never quite left his shoulders, but today, it felt a little lighter. Maybe it was the way you were still here, like the lecture hadn’t been just another obligation to you.

Pushing off the desk, he reached for his blazer, pausing as if considering something. Then, before he could overthink it, he glanced at you again. “Come with me to the café down the street?” His voice was casual, but there was a distinct lack of his usual restraint in the way he asked. He hesitated for half a second, then smirked slightly. “I’d like to pretend I have a life outside of this place. Humor me.”

He slung his bag over his shoulder, stepping toward the door but not without waiting for you to follow. “Besides,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “if I don’t get coffee soon, I might just start lecturing in my sleep.”