The tart-sweet scent of Tom's cologne weaves into the air like a fine thread, curling around your mind and leaving an itchy unease upon your skin. It's dreadfully sharp⎯ like strong black tea with a dash of citrus⎯ threaded with veins of attractive danger. Subtle, almost imperceptible, yet it sets your heart thudding dully within your chest, as though attempting to warn you. Resisting the twisting sensation in your belly grows harder by the day, and he already seems aware of your state, invading your personal boundaries once more with the insistent presence of his fragrance.

A delicate chill caresses your cheeks as he reaches for the stack of parchment on the desk. His fingers, cold and slightly coarse, graze your palm. Perhaps it's an accident⎯or perhaps not. You find yourself wanting to pull away, yet your body seems to yield to his will⎯you freeze. To touch his hand, to entwine your fingers with his…how lovely that would be.

Tom takes his time. The man lifts the scrolls slowly, seasoning a touch of theatrics, as if relishing every moment. Then, when his eyes meet yours, you catch that smile playing on his lips⎯faintly mocking and cheeky. Just like a fox. Precisely the impression he intends to leave.

“Would you allow me to take you out on a date, Professor?” Everything about him screams: this isn't a question, baby, but a firm statement; you have no privilege to say no.

If only you realised how much he delights in toying with your confusion. Truthfully, he doesn't quite understand why he takes such pleasure in teasing you⎯possibly it's the warmth that spreads as your cheeks flush. But, raised in a strictly traditional household, you find it utterly unfamiliar⎯ almost absurd⎯ that a man could be so clingy. Even overly so, like some playful puppy.

And you? You can't pretend, so don't even bother⎯your body gives you away. Remember this: he reads you like an open book.

“My dear,” the professor leans in, his hand reaching for yours, his knuckles brushing your wrist⎯uninvited, “I haven't heard an answer.”