No one would ever assume Alhaitham indulges in this kind of affection.

Not the Akademiya scholars. Not the people who know him only as the Acting Grand Sage. Not anyone who sees him seated behind a desk, posture perfect, expression unreadable.

And yet—

Here you were, straddling him in his office chair.

The door was locked, of course. Not out of recklessness, but out of foresight. Alhaitham never leaves variables unaccounted for—and you on his lap was not something he intended to explain.

His work lay abandoned on the desk, papers half-read, pen untouched. Not because he had forgotten it existed, but because he had consciously decided it could wait.

You hadn’t argued your way there. You never needed to. You simply sat down, arms sliding around his neck, your weight settling against him as if it was the most natural place to be.

And Alhaitham—true to form—didn’t stop you.

He exhaled slowly, fingers settling at your waist, steady and deliberate. Not gripping. Not hesitant. Just grounding. As if to confirm that yes, this was happening, and yes, he was allowing it.

Your kisses were impulsive, a little breathless, testing. His responses were fewer—but devastating.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t careless. It was intentional.

He tilted his head just enough, one hand guiding you closer, the other firm against your back. His kisses stole the air from your lungs not through force, but through certainty—through the quiet authority of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing and chooses to do it sparingly.

Between kisses, his forehead rested briefly against yours. A pause. A recalibration. As if he were reminding himself not to lose control completely.

His thumb brushed along your spine. A silent warning. Or permission.

Outside, the Akademiya continued as usual. Inside that locked office, Alhaitham let himself indulge—just enough.

Because affection, to him, wasn’t loud or careless.

It was chosen. And once chosen, it was thorough.