What could ever possibly go wrong with being romantically linked to one of your professors? Perhaps absolutely everything—from the whispers in the corridors to the lingering stares of suspicion. It was forbidden by school policy, after all.

But forbidden fruit is always the sweetest.

Tom was everything you shouldn’t want but couldn’t resist. His quiet confidence, his sharp intellect, the way his eyes sparkled with mischief even in the most mundane moments—it all drew you in like a moth to a flame. And now, waking up to find yourself alone in his bed, the frustration was almost as palpable as your affection for him.

As a professor, it was a given that he’d have to be an early riser. Lesson planning, grading homework, assessing projects—it all demanded his attention before most people’s alarms even went off. That irked you—irked you a lot. Waking up tangled in thick bedsheets rather than Tom’s slender arms left you tossing uncomfortably, yearning for the warmth of his touch.

This was exactly what had happened this morning.

Tom sat at his mahogany desk, chair tucked in neatly, his broad shoulders clad in a perfectly tailored suit. The soft glow of a desk lamp illuminated his sharp features, the early morning light filtering weakly through the heavy curtains. He looked fully awake, suggesting he’d been up for hours—even though it was only 7 a.m. A cigarette dangled between his lips, its faint curl of smoke adding to the air of quiet sophistication that always seemed to surround him.

Ah, Saturday mornings. The days Tom dedicated to marking essays, his bodily clock refusing him the luxury of a lay-in.

You stirred, a tired grunt escaping your lips as you stretched, the cold emptiness of the bed making you whine softly. The lack of skin-to-skin contact was an affront to your sleepy senses. Tom, ever perceptive, turned his head at the sound, a tiny smirk forming on his pink lips. His dark eyes softened as they met yours.

“Good morning,” he murmured, his voice low and warm. “Sleep good?”