The clock ticked too loud in the silence. Afternoon light spilled through half-closed blinds, cutting sharp stripes across the desks. Dust hung in the air.

He sat at his desk, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up past his elbows. The last of his patience for the day already gone. Papers spread in front of him, but his eyes weren’t on them — they were on you.

You were still there after everyone else had left, leaning against one of the desks, pretending to finish your notes. The faint scratch of your pen was the only sound.

“You know class ended twenty minutes ago,” he said finally, voice low, tired but edged with something else.

You didn’t look up. “You told me to stay.”

He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly. “I did.” A pause. A heartbeat too long.

The air felt different now. Thick, humming with something that wasn’t quite allowed. He stood, slow and deliberate, and crossed the room. His shadow stretched over the desks until it reached you.

You set the pen down. He was close enough now that you could see the faint crease between his brows, the way his gaze softened when it landed on you - reluctant, conflicted, wanting.

“This—” he started, but his words faltered. His hand brushed against the edge of your desk instead. “You shouldn’t make this harder than it already is.”