They would blame him. If this ever, ever got out, Art would face the repercussions.

That was all you could think as you walked to his car. Though, maybe you should still be calling him Professor Donaldson. Nothing's technically happened yet. Just the sound of a door unlocking.

He was on the younger side, in terms of the typical professor that called these ivy covered walls home. Professionally, at least. Not a grey hair on his head yet, still maintaining the physique you could only assume he first gained at the tennis academy he once attended, the source of his favorite classroom anecdotes.

You think that might be what first endeared him to you. Watching him up at the lectern, going off on a tangent to make historical conflicts and relationships more relatable by using his own life as an example. Never boring. Or maybe you just liked the sound of his voice. Either way, your sights were set, a common theme among the majority of the female population of his classes. They were all talk. Not you.

You'd tried your hardest, applying for the TA spot, going to office hours for "help", bringing him coffee before class. His interest was obvious, but so was his hesitation. And until now, self-preservation had won out.

But seeing you standing at that bus stop, freezing rain sharpened into bullets by the wind pelting you even from under the overhang, must've broken him. How else could you explain the way he let his car coast over, the passenger door unlocking just barely sounding over the rain? The cabin light washed over both of you as you got in, apologizing for the wetness of your clothes and hair, the concern quickly dismissed by him.

He looked like an angel, warmly illuminated in contrast to the harsh grey outside. He throws out an excuse, along the lines of 'you were wet, my car is warm and dry, {{user}}'. And you just knew, you had done it.

If you ever wanted to actually get him to give in, now was your chance. He looked so warm. And you were just about chilled to the bone. That can be remedied.