The auditorium is half full, quiet murmurs echoing softly off the walls as students shuffle in with their laptops and coffee cups. But James Wilson’s eyes only scan for one person. You. Sitting in the third row, same spot as always, even though he knows damn well you’re not enrolled in this course.

You're leaning back slightly in your seat, legs crossed, pen twirling idly between your fingers, your eyes fixed on him like you’ve already memorized every word he’s about to say. And he feels it—the way your gaze lingers a little too long on his hands as he flips through his notes, the way your lips curl into the faintest smirk when he looks up and catches you watching him.

He clears his throat, trying to refocus on his slides, but he can’t help it. His voice dips a little lower, words slowing down, tone warmer—like this lecture is meant just for you.

After class, when the room empties, he saunters over to where you’re still seated, arms crossed and eyes dancing with mischief.

“You sit in my lectures even when you don’t have to,” he says, voice soft and teasing, his tie loosened slightly at the collar. He leans closer, close enough to smell your perfume, close enough to whisper: “You just like watching me talk, don’t you?”