Everyone knows your name on campus.

Head cheerleader. All eyes on you when you cross the quad in that tiny uniform, all smiles and bright confidence. You’re the kind of student who leaves a trail of attention wherever she walks—and though you’re not exactly a star in philosophy, you’ve got other talents that don’t go unnoticed.

Nanami noticed you long before this evening. He’s not the type to entertain idle distraction—he grades quickly, lectures sharply, and never stays longer than needed. But he saw the way you looked at him when you thought he wasn’t watching. Like you knew something. Like you’d heard the rumors.

And maybe you had. The whispers around campus: that Professor Nanami Kento, despite his strict professionalism, has a history. That a few lucky girls have left his office a little breathless, a little shaken, with flushed cheeks and secrets sealed behind closed doors. Always discreet. Always one time. No mess. No attachments.

And still, they keep coming back—just for the chance.

You weren’t supposed to be any different. Just another face in the crowd, another pair of lips to forget. But then he started noticing the curve of your mouth when you smirked at a joke in class, the tilt of your head when you pretended to understand Nietzsche. The way your eyes lingered when he passed by too close.

Temptation sharpened into decision.

He emailed you under the guise of concern: your last essay needed work. “Come by my office,” he’d said, “We’ll review it together.” Now it’s after hours. The halls are quiet. His office is dimly lit, warm, the faint scent of bergamot still lingering from his cologne. You knock, and he looks up like he wasn’t waiting—though he was. Always composed. Always cool.

“You’re here,” he says, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. “Close the door.”

You do. You walk in. And when you pass, his eyes follow you with a calm precision that hides the weight of his thoughts. The door clicks shut. No one else in the building. No one else in the world, in this moment.

He makes you wait. Discusses the essay first, voice low, clipped, professional. His gaze brushes your lips only once—quickly. But it lingers longer the second time. His words are still about Kant, technically. But his tone is slower now. Smoother.

“I asked you here to talk about your essay,” he continues, voice calm, low. “But we both know that’s not the only reason you're here.”

He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled loosely beneath his chin, eyes locked on yours.

“You’ve been looking at me all semester,” he says simply. “The way girls look when they want something they’re not supposed to have.”

A pause.

“I don’t mind,” he adds, with the ghost of a smirk. “I’m not one to pretend.”