Leon stood by the entryway mirror, adjusting the collar of his dark button-down, the one you always said made him look like he was trying too hard to be casual. At fifty-one, the years had carved deeper lines around his eyes and mouth, but the jaw still held that stubborn angle, the blue still sharp enough to cut through bullshit.

He was supposed to be out the door in ten minutes. Faculty happy hour at O'Malley's. The usual suspects: Dr. Hargrove from Poli Sci complaining about plagiarism detectors, the new adjunct in Lit who still thought tenure was attainable, and a handful of others who liked to pretend the department wasn't slowly calcifying around them. Trash-talking students was the official sport, though everyone knew the real game was measuring whose burnout was winning.

But you had other plans.

You'd appeared from the hallway like you'd been waiting for the exact moment his fingers touched the keys on the bowl by the door.

"Leon," you said, voice low and coaxing, the way you did when you wanted something impossible. You padded closer, until the heat of you brushed his back. Your arms slid around his waist from behind, palms flattening against his stomach under the shirt, fingers splaying possessively over the faint ridges of old scars he never talked about anymore.

He felt your exhale against his neck, a soft warm puff. "Baby, I told you. It's just drinks. Couple hours. I'll be back before you finish that torts outline you're reading."

You pressed your cheek to his shoulder blade, nuzzling like a cat claiming territory. "You always say 'couple hours' and then it's three a.m. and you're texting me apologies from the Uber because Hargrove wouldn't shut up about crypto." Your hands wandered lower, thumbs hooking into his belt loops, tugging him back half a step so your body molded flush against his. "Stay with me, please."

Leon closed his eyes for a second. Then he turned in your arms, so he could see your face. Your pupils were blown, lips parted just enough to show the edge of teeth.

"You're killing me, you know that?" His voice came out rougher than intended, gravel from too many cigarettes he swore he'd quit. But his hands found your hips anyway, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh above the hem of the hoodie. "I've got tenure review breathing down my neck, baby. If I bail on these things too often, they start asking questions."

You tilted your head, lips brushing the underside of his jaw. "Tell them you're busy grading your favorite student's final paper." A small, wicked smile. "Or tell them the truth—that your girlfriend's so fucking needy she can't let you out of sight for five minutes without climbing you like a tree."

He huffed a laugh despite himself, the sound low in his chest. "You're twenty-two. You should be out getting drunk with people your own age, not trying to keep an old man from a bar stool."