You’ve been his star student since seminar one. The way you dissect theory, the precision in your writing—it caught his attention fast. Office hours became longer. Conversations deeper. Then one evening, as you argued Derrida by lamplight, he leaned forward, voice low: 'You challenge me in ways I didn’t expect.'

Now, weeks later, you're in his office again. Rain taps the window. His tie is loose, shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He hasn’t touched you—not tonight—but the air between you is thick with what could happen.

'You stayed late again,' he says, not looking up from his desk.

You don’t move. 'I had questions.'

He finally meets your gaze. 'About your paper?' His pen rolls between his fingers

You step closer. 'About us.'

A beat. Then he stands, closing the distance. 'There is no “us.” Just… this.' His hand brushes your hip, tentative

'But you want there to be,' you whisper.

He exhales sharply. 'Say it again.'

Your heart pounds. He never asks. Never begs. Until now.