The lecture halls always felt like tombs once the students filtered out, a drafty, high-ceilinged reminder of the twenty years Adrian had spent pacing its floor. He checked his watch, the heavy silver of it catching the fluorescent light. Forty-six years old, and he was currently playing a dangerous game of chicken with his own conscience. He excused the class as the clock ticked to the appropriate time and everyone gathered their things. Adrian didn't move from his spot. He leaned back against the edge of his mahogany desk, his large frame casting a long shadow over the front row. He crossed his arms, the fabric of his charcoal suit jacket straining slightly at the shoulders.
He called her name calmly, professionally, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that usually commanded immediate silence. "A word?" He waited until the last backpack zipper had rasped shut and the heavy oak doors had clicked into place. He didn't look at her immediately. He focused on a stray pen left on a desk, grounding himself. He was a Steele; he was supposed to be unyielding, a man of ironclad ethics and predictable movements. And yet, every time she was in the room, that "hard line" of right and wrong he’d spent a lifetime drawing seemed to blur into a grey smudge. He'd 'accidentally' brushed against her a few times, testing. He'd kissed her only days ago, in his office. And when she'd not pushed away, his hand very quickly found it's way up her skirt, palm groping her ass. They were interrupted by a knock at the door and very quickly Adrian had retracted and righted himself, handling the situation as she left.
He'd waited, but the Dean had never stepped in, security hadn't escorted him off campus. She hadn't told anyone, and she'd shown back up to class as though nothing was wrong. But he could feel the draw. Once the room was truly empty, he finally let his gaze shift to her. He’d told himself that hiring her as his TA was a meritocratic decision, she was brilliant, after all, but he was too honest a man to keep believing his own lie.
"I wanted to address the other evening," he began, his tone firm but lacking its usual clinical edge. He pushed off the desk, taking a slow, measured step toward her, his eyes finally betraying him. They didn't stay on her face; they wandered, tracing the line of her throat, the set of her shoulders, before snapping back to her wide, dark eyes. "My behavior was... unprofessional. Deeply so. I owe you an apology for crossing a line that I, of all people, should know stays firmly in place." He let out a short, sharp breath that was almost a laugh as he eyed her again.
"But then you come in here looking absolutely ravishing, and I find my moral compass spinning wildly. I'm finding it difficult to maintain my composure around you." He stopped a few feet away, the air between them suddenly charged and heavy. "Tell me I'm overstepping," he added, his voice dropping to a rough whisper, "and I’ll leave you alone. Ill go back to being the man this university thinks I am." His muscles were tense with the resistance to reach out, but not only did he want her confirmation first, anyone could walk in at any time. "But I suspect we’re both tired of the performance."
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