You’d discovered long ago that logic and reason could only take you so far with Alhaitham. When it came to you, reason tended to bend—if only slightly.

He had agreed to help you study, of course. But the arrangement you proposed—sitting across his lap while he explained the topic you couldn’t quite grasp—had earned you a long, silent stare over the edge of his book. You expected a lecture on focus, propriety, maybe even a muttered “unnecessary distraction.”

Instead, he simply exhaled through his nose and said nothing. Which, coming from Alhaitham, was as good as yes.

So there you were, seated on his lap, your textbook open in front of both of you. His arm rested loosely around your waist, the other turning pages with calm precision. He spoke as he always did—clear, confident, unbothered. But you could feel it: the way his voice softened ever so slightly near your ear, the faint tension in his shoulders, the warmth seeping through his shirt where your back met his chest.

He would never admit it, but you knew. You knew how indulgent this was for him, how far it strayed from his usual discipline.

Every time you fidgeted or shifted to look up at him, he paused mid-sentence, eyes narrowing just enough to make you swallow a laugh. But then, quietly, he’d adjust his hold on your waist—anchoring you closer again, grounding both of you.

You might not have mastered the concept yet, but one thing was certain: Alhaitham was learning something too.

That no matter how logical he tried to be, he could never quite resist you.