burdened with glorious purpose

. . .

He’s the kind of professor who sounds gentle like every sentence is an invitation to think, not a demand to agree. Soft voice, careful phrasing, that faint almost-smile when someone makes a decent point.

Which is exactly why it’s ruining her… Not to mention, he’s physically attractive…

She sits in the second row with her notebook open, pen poised, trying to act like a normal student who came here for the assigned reading not like someone who’s been privately losing her mind since week one.

Professor Creel turns a page in his notes and the movement is so small it shouldn’t matter. But it does. Because his hands are always steady, deliberate. Because his sleeves are pushed up just enough to show the line of his forearm when he writes on the board. Because he leans forward when he gets interested, like the room becomes intimate without permission.

“Let’s talk about the narrator,” he says, and his voice is low enough that everyone quiets automatically. Not out of fear, out of habit. Out of wanting to hear him.

Her eyes flick down to his mouth before she can stop herself.

It’s not even a choice at this point. It’s like her attention has a gravitational pull and he’s the center of it.

She forces herself to look at the text. Ink. Words. Meaning. She can do this. She’s literally good at this.

He walks between the desks, slow, unhurried and stops near her.

Not in front of her. Not directly beside her. Just… close enough that she catches the clean, faint scent of soap and paper. Close enough that she can hear the quiet click of his shoes and the soft drag of his breath when he pauses to think.

“Most people,” he says, “assume the narrator is trustworthy because he’s articulate.”

Her pen scratches too hard against the page.

It’s stupid. It’s stupid to be affected by the way he says articulate, like the word has weight. Like he’s tasting it. Like he has no idea what that does to her.

He glances down at her notebook.

She tries not to react. She tries to look normal, composed, academic, except she can feel heat blooming under her skin, like her body wants to betray her in the most humiliating way possible.

Then he says her name.

Not sharply. Not like she’s in trouble. Like he’s curious.

“Y/N.”

Her stomach drops with a sick, lovely thud.

“Yes?” she manages, and she hates that it comes out slightly breathless.

His gaze stays on her just long enough to make her aware of her own mouth, her own hands, her own pulse. He doesn’t stare. He doesn’t leer. That’s the worst part: it’s all restraint. All control. All professional.

“Do you agree?” he asks, mild and polite, like he isn’t standing close enough to make her feel like she’s being singled out for something she didn’t consent to.

Her brain tries to reboot.

She drags her focus back to the page, to the lecture, to the safety of analysis, except she can still feel him there, the quiet presence, the attention. Like he’s waiting for her to meet him on his level.

“I don’t,” she says, finally, her voice steadier now, because this part she can do.

His eyebrows lift. Interested.

And she loves that look on him. She shouldn’t. But she does.

“I think we mistake articulation for honesty,” she continues. “Someone can sound convincing and still be—selective.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Not a smile. A recognition.

“Selective,” he repeats, and something about hearing her word in his voice makes her spine go tight.

He leans slightly closer, not much, barely anything, just enough that his shadow edges into her space, and she suddenly becomes intensely aware of how she’s sitting. How her knee is angled. How her fingers grip her pen. How she’s breathing.

“Explain,” he says softly.

She swallows.

This isn’t flirting. It’s academic. It’s normal. It’s what she came for.

So why does it feel like he just asked her to confess something?

She keeps her eyes on the book because if she looks at him she’ll get reckless.

“Because omission is a choice,” she says. “And he omits too neatly.”

Silence settles, classroom silence, the kind that means people are listening.

Professor Creel’s gaze doesn’t leave her.

And she can feel it like a touch that isn’t happening.

“Good,” he says, very quietly, and the word hits her in the chest like she’s been rewarded.

He straightens, steps away with that maddening calm of his, and continues as if he didn’t just make her entire nervous system light up.

Her pen hovers above the page.

She tries to write down the next point. She really does.

But all she can think about is the way he said her name. The way he leaned in. The way he looked at her like her mind was something worth examining up close.

And the worst part?

He doesn’t even know she’s holding herself together by sheer willpower.

. . .

A few days later, the numbers start to betray her.

Not in lecture, never in lecture. In lecture she’s sharp, attentive, answering when he asks questions like she was made for this room. She takes notes. She underlines. She argues the right points with the right citations. She looks like she belongs here.

It’s the tests that ruin her.

The moment the paper lands in front of her, her brain does that awful thing where it wanders. Not to the book, not to the themes, but to him. To his voice reading a line aloud. To the way he watches the class when he thinks no one notices. To the quiet approval in his eyes when she challenges him and he can’t help it, can’t help her.

She sits there staring at a question she absolutely knows, and still her mind turns traitor.

By the time he hands back the second exam, the grade at the top is lower than the first.

She can feel it before she even looks. Like her body knows she’s about to be embarrassed.

He places the stack on the front desk and dismisses the class with a gentle, “That’s all for today.” Chairs scrape, backpacks zip. People file out, talking, laughing, free.

She starts to stand with them, desperate to disappear into the current.

“Y/N.”

Her name is calm. Not loud. Not angry.

It still stops her cold.

Everyone else keeps moving. The door swings. Air from the hallway washes in. A few students glance back with mild curiosity, then leave.

She remains half-standing, half-frozen, her fingers still hooked around her bag strap.

“Yes?” she manages, trying for casual and landing somewhere too tight.

Professor Creel waits until the room is mostly empty. He doesn’t watch the last student go. His attention is already on her, steady as a hand at the small of her back.

When the door clicks shut, the classroom shifts. It’s the same space, but without an audience it feels smaller. Closer. Like she’s been pulled from daylight into something private.

“Stay a moment,” he says.

Not a question. Not unkind. Just certain.

She swallows and steps back down into her chair, like her legs decide for her.

He doesn’t come around her desk. He doesn’t crowd her. He sets the graded papers on the edge of his podium, then takes his glasses off, slow and deliberate, and folds them like he has all the time in the world.

That movement should be meaningless. It isn’t.

He looks at her over the bare bridge of his nose, expression composed. Soft. Professional. The way he always is.

Except his eyes are too focused.

“Your lecture performance hasn’t changed,” he says, voice even. “But your test scores have.”

She forces a small laugh that sounds wrong in the quiet. “I’ve just been… off, I guess.”

“Off,” he repeats, and there’s a faint pause around the word, like he doesn’t accept it on principle.

He lifts her exam, this one, and taps the page once with a finger. Not hard. Not aggressive.

Controlled.

“You know this material,” he says. “These aren’t mistakes from ignorance.”

Heat crawls up her neck. She stares at the wood grain of her desk like it’s fascinating.

“I get nervous during tests.”

“Mm.” A small sound. Thoughtful. Not convinced.

The silence stretches. She can feel him weighing her the way he weighs a text, looking for what’s missing, what’s been omitted too neatly.

She hates that it works. Hates that she wants it to work.

He speaks again, gentler. “What’s going on?”

Her mouth opens.

And she does what she always does when she’s scared of the truth.

She lies.

“Nothing,” she says quickly. “It’s just a lot of classes at once. Maybe I overloaded my schedule.”

His gaze doesn’t move. He doesn’t argue. He just watches her the way he does when she tries to make a weak point in class, patient, calm, waiting for her to realize she can’t sell it to him.

“Y/N,” he says softly, and her name in his voice is a problem all by itself.

She grips her pen. “I’m fine.”

He leans back against the desk near the front, still a respectful distance, still proper, and folds his hands. There’s something quietly authoritative about the way he sits in the silence like it belongs to him.

“You’ve missed questions you’ve answered out loud in this room,” he says. “More than once.”

She looks up before she can stop herself.

His eyes meet hers immediately, like he was waiting for exactly that.

“You’re not fine,” he adds, not harshly. Just fact.

Her pulse stutters. She scrambles for an escape that doesn’t sound like an escape.

“If my grade’s going to keep dropping,” she says, voice carefully steady, “it might be better if I transferred to another section. Another professor. That way I can focus.”

The air changes. Not dramatically. Subtly, like the room just inhaled.

Professor Creel doesn’t blink.

For a second she thinks she’s offended him. Then she realizes it’s something worse.

He’s controlled, yes, but there’s a tension under it now. A quiet edge, like she’s pushed on a boundary she didn’t know was there.

He sets her exam down with careful precision.

“That’s what you want?” he asks.

She nods too fast. “It’s practical.”

“Practical,” he repeats, and the word sounds different in his mouth. Sharper. Almost amused. Almost displeased.

He stands. Not suddenly, but decisively.

Her stomach flips anyway.

He walks a few steps, still not into her space, but closer than before, stopping beside her desk at an angle. Close enough that she catches the subtle scent of his cologne again, clean and understated. Close enough that his shadow touches the corner of her notebook.

He looks down at her paper. Then at her.

His voice stays low. “You’re doing well in here. You’re engaged. You’re capable.”

She swallows, throat tight. “It doesn’t matter if my tests—”

“It does,” he cuts in, still quiet, but there’s no softness to the interruption. No room to talk over him. It isn’t anger. It’s authority, used with precision.

Her lips part. Her heart thuds like she’s been reprimanded.

Then he softens, just a fraction.

“Don’t run from a course you’re succeeding in because something else is getting in your way.”

Her breath catches. Because he didn’t say what the something is.

Like he already knows.

She forces her shoulders to loosen. “I’m not running.”

He holds her gaze. It’s infuriating how steady he is.

“Then tell me the truth,” he says, and his voice drops a shade lower, like he’s speaking to only her. “What is distracting you?”

Her face burns. Every answer she could give feels dangerous.

“I told you,” she says, too quickly. “I’m overloaded.”

He watches her for a long moment.

Then, calmly and firmly, he says, “No.”

The word lands like a hand closing around the back of her neck, not to hurt, but to stop her from moving.

She goes still.

He doesn’t touch her. He doesn’t need to.

“I’m not going to sign off on you blaming your intelligence for something that isn’t intelligence,” he continues. “And I’m not going to encourage you to abandon the one environment where you consistently excel.”

She blinks, stunned. “You can’t—”

“I can’t stop you from transferring,” he says, and she hears the clipped honesty in it. “The department handles that. If you want to change sections, you can. You don’t need my permission.”

The relief flickers, brief and fast.

Then he adds, voice even, “But if you’re asking me to validate it as the solution, I won’t.”

Her fingers tighten around her pen. “Why?”

His gaze holds hers. Steady. Intent.

“Because it’s avoidance,” he says simply.

Her pulse spikes. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he replies, and there’s something in the calm certainty that makes her stomach turn over. “I’ve been teaching long enough to recognize when a student is trying to outrun a problem by changing scenery.”

She swallows hard. “So what, what do you want me to do?”

He exhales, slow. Like he’s choosing each word carefully.

“I want you to stop pretending you don’t know what’s happening,” he says.

She stares at him, panicked, embarrassed, electric with it.

Professor Creel’s expression stays composed, but his eyes flick briefly to her mouth, then back up, like a mistake he corrects immediately.

It’s so quick she could pretend she imagined it.

She doesn’t.

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, as if he hates that his attention strays at all.

Then he speaks again, voice controlled. “We can address your performance without you sabotaging yourself. You’ll come to office hours this week. We’ll review how you’re approaching exams. We’ll fix the pattern.”

The phrasing, you’ll come, should feel too bold.

Instead it makes something in her go hot and weak and furious all at once.

She lifts her chin. “And if I don’t?”

He doesn’t smile. Not exactly.

But there’s something dangerously close to satisfaction in the quiet, unwavering way he looks at her, as if he likes that she’s defiant.

“Then you’ll keep slipping,” he says. “And you’ll hate yourself for it.”

His voice softens just enough to sound like concern again. Like he’s the same gentle professor the class knows.

But the control doesn’t leave.

“And I don’t believe,” he adds, watching her closely, “that you’re the kind of person who enjoys losing.”

Her throat tightens. She looks down at her exam because if she keeps looking at him, she’ll say something reckless.

“I’m not,” she whispers.

“Good.” That single word again. Quiet. Heavy.

He steps back, giving her space, returning the air to her lungs, like he’s proving he’s in control of that, too.

“Office hours,” he repeats, calmly inevitable. “Thursday.”

She nods because her voice is unreliable.

He picks up his glasses and puts them on, the final click of the frames settling him back into professionalism. The moment is sealed, filed away, made presentable.

But his eyes still hold hers.

And when he says, “You can go,” it sounds less like dismissal and more like permission.

She stands on legs that feel unreal, gathering her things too slowly. She moves toward the door, heart pounding, brain screaming at her to breathe.

Behind her, his voice, soft, mild, and absolutely not mild at all, adds:

“And Y/N?”

She pauses with her hand on the handle.

“Yes?”

A beat.

“Don’t lie to me again.”

Not a threat.

A boundary.

A line drawn with velvet and steel.

She leaves the room and the hallway feels too bright, too loud, too normal.

And she realizes, with a sick twist of excitement, that he didn’t let her escape.

He didn’t push her away.

He made her stay.

. . .

Office hours are quieter than class. No audience. No chatter. Just the soft hum of the lights and the occasional scratch of his pen.

Her exam lies open between them like a confession.

Professor Creel sits across the desk, sleeves rolled, glasses low on his nose as he points to the question she missed, calm, patient, infuriatingly composed.

“This one,” he says. “You identified the theme correctly in lecture. Why didn’t you use it here?”

She stares at the page. She knows the answer.

She also knows she’s not looking at the page because she can feel him, his voice, his hands, the steady focus of him, as if attention is a physical thing in the room.

“I… I don’t know,” she lies.

His gaze lifts.

It lands on her the way a hand would, slow and deliberate, and she immediately regrets being human.

“Try again,” he says softly.

Her throat tightens. Heat creeps up her neck. She glances away, pretending to reread the paragraph, but her eyes keep flicking back to him like her body refuses to cooperate.

He watches her for a beat longer than necessary.

Then he leans forward, closer, not enough to be improper, just enough to shift the air. Just enough that she can’t pretend he doesn’t affect her.

“Y/N,” he says, quieter now. “I’m speaking to you.”

“I’m listening.”

“You’re looking at me,” he corrects, still gentle, still controlled, but there’s a darker weight to it, an edge that makes her pulse stutter. “And you’ve been doing it all semester.”

Her stomach drops.

She tries to laugh it off, but it comes out thin. “That’s not—”

His hand lifts, not to touch her, not to stop her physically, just a small, precise motion that ends the sentence anyway.

She goes silent. Her breath goes shallow.

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.

“Your lecture performance is strong,” he says, eyes steady on hers. “Your exams are declining. And when I ask you what’s wrong, you lie.”

“I’m not lying—”

Her mind raced, thoughts of him flooding her—the way his voice commanded the lecture hall, the subtle flex of his muscles when he gestured, the heat that pooled low in her belly whenever their eyes met. But she couldn't admit that, not to him, not to anyone. It was hard enough, admitting it to herself.

His gaze sharpens. Not angry. Just final.

“You are,” he says. “And you’re not as good at it as you think.”

The heat in her face is instant and humiliating. She pushes her chair back like distance will save her, snatching her notebook, her bag, anything to give her hands a task.

“I should go,” she manages.

She stands.

He stands too, smoothly, controlled, moving around the desk with quiet purpose.

“Thank you, Professor but I should—“

Her sentence cuts off halfway.

One second she’s talking, hands moving, breath steady, then his fingers snap around her throat like a trap, thumb digging under her jaw, the rest of his grip hard enough to steal the sound right out of her mouth. Shock flashes across her face as her words collapse into a strangled, useless inhale.

The pressure of his fingers against her skin was electric, a shock of dominance that made her gasp, her pulse throbbing wildly under his touch.

“Don’t,” he says quietly, and there’s nothing quiet about the way he moves her.

He doesn’t drag her so much as guide her with pressure—an ugly, controlled shove that turns her steps backward. Her palms fly up to his wrist on instinct but he keeps her upright, keeps her moving.

Her back hits the door with a blunt thud that knocks the air loose from her lungs, pinning her there with his body mere inches away. The frame rattles.

His breath was warm on her face, carrying a faint hint of coffee and something undeniably masculine, as his eyes bored into hers, dark and unyielding. "Don't lie to me again, Y/N," he growled, his voice laced with a seductive authority that made her knees weaken. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, the subtle scent of his cologne—sandalwood and leather—invading her senses, making her head spin. Her hands instinctively rose to his wrist, not to push him away but to steady herself, her fingers brushing the hairs on his arm. "Tell me the truth. What's really distracting you?"

The words tumbled out before she could stop them, a confession born of the raw intensity in his gaze. "It's…you," she admitted softly due to his grip, her voice breaking, a flush spreading down her neck as her body betrayed her with a sudden surge of wetness between her thighs. "I can't stop looking at you, thinking about you. It's wrong…but I want you."

He didn't release her throat, but his grip loosened just enough for her to draw a shaky breath, his thumb tracing a slow circle over her pulse point that sent shivers racing down her spine. 

"Tsk, tsk," he murmured, his eyes roaming over her face and down to the swell of her breasts beneath her blouse, devouring her with a look that was pure, unfiltered hunger. 

“Naughty girl. Careful for what you wish for…” The way he eyed her made her feel exposed, desired in a way that ignited every nerve ending, her nipples hardening against the lace of her bra as if responding to his gaze alone. 

Without warning, he pushed her harder against the door, his free hand sliding up her thigh, bunching the fabric of her skirt until it rode high on her hips as he spoke, “You finally have my full attention.” 

Then, with a swift, commanding motion, he spun her around and shoved her onto the desk, papers scattering to the floor in a chaotic whisper. She landed on her back, the cool wood pressing into her skin through her clothes, her legs dangling over the edge as he wedged himself between them. His hands were everywhere—rough, insistent—hiking her skirt up further to reveal the damp fabric of her panties, the scent of her arousal already filling the air like a forbidden perfume.

He dropped to his knees with a deliberateness that made her breath catch, his eyes locked on hers as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her underwear and yanked them down, exposing her fully to the dim light. The cool air kissed her slick folds, making her shudder, and she could see the raw hunger in his expression, his lips parting slightly as he took in the sight of her—her pussy glistening, swollen with need.

"You're soaked for me already," he said, his voice a husky whisper that sent a jolt through her core, before he leaned in.

His breath hot against her most intimate flesh. The first touch of his tongue was agonizingly slow, a flat, broad stroke from her entrance to her clit that made her arch off the desk, a low moan escaping her lips. 

He gripped her thighs, holding her open as he delved deeper, his tongue delving into her folds with expert precision, lapping at the wetness that coated her. Every flick, every swirl sent waves of pleasure crashing through her body—the wet, sucking sounds of his mouth on her filling the room, mingling with her ragged gasps. 

She could feel the roughness of his tongue against her sensitive nub, circling it relentlessly, building a tension that coiled tighter and tighter in her belly, her hips bucking involuntarily against his face.

As he worked her with unyielding focus, his hands roamed upward, one sliding under her blouse to cup her breast, thumbing her hardened nipple through the fabric until she cried out, the dual sensations overwhelming. 

The taste of her seemed to drive him wild; she could hear his breaths growing heavier, feel the occasional brush of his stubble against her inner thighs, adding a delicious friction to the mix. 

Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as the pleasure mounted, her body trembling on the edge. "Professor, please," she whimpered, her voice thick with desperation, the words barely coherent amid the symphony of her moans. 

He didn't stop, his tongue plunging into her entrance now, fucking her with it in slow, deep thrusts that mimicked what she craved elsewhere, his nose pressing against her clit with each movement. 

The buildup was exquisite torture, every nerve alight with sensation—the slick warmth of his mouth, the firm pressure of his lips, the way her inner walls clenched around nothing, aching for more. 

When she finally shattered, her orgasm ripping through her like a storm, her body convulsed, thighs clamping around his head as waves of ecstasy pulsed from her core, leaving her breathless and spent, a trail of her essence glistening on his chin.

He pulled back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes gleaming with a predatory satisfaction that made her heart race anew. 

The room felt charged, the air heavy with the mingled scents of their desire—her musky arousal and his own faint, masculine sweat. Before she could catch her breath, his hand shot out again, wrapping around her throat with that same commanding grip, pulling her up to face him, sliding off the desk. "I'm not done with you yet," he whispered, his voice a dark promise that sent a fresh shiver down her spine, his other hand already guiding her to her knees in front of him. 

The wooden floor pressed hard against her kneecaps as he pushed the chair under the door handle, the metallic scrape echoing like a seal on their privacy, leaving her trapped in this intimate world with him, her body still humming from the aftershocks of pleasure. 

She looked up at him, her lips parted in anticipation, the bulge in his pants mere inches from her face, and she knew this was only the beginning of the storm they had unleashed.

She knelt there on the hard wooden floor, her knees aching from the unyielding surface, the cool air of the classroom brushing against her flushed skin as she gazed up at him. Professor Creel's eyes locked onto hers, dark and commanding, a silent order that made her fingers tremble slightly as they reached for the waistband of his pants. 

With deliberate slowness, she unbuttoned them, the metal clasp giving way under her touch, the sound of the zipper's descent a soft, intimate whisper in the quiet room. All the while, his hand rested firmly in her hair, fingers threading through the strands to tilt her head back, ensuring she didn't break that intense eye contact. It was as if he were teaching her another lesson, one far removed from the lectures on Shakespeare and Austen that had filled this very space just hours before—just on the other side of the chair barricaded door, lectures where she'd sat in the second row, her mind wandering, distracted by the way his voice commanded the room, his words painting vivid worlds that mirrored the turmoil in her own heart.

She knelt there on the hard wooden floor, her knees aching from the unyielding surface, the cool air of the classroom brushing against her flushed skin as she gazed up at him. Professor Creel's eyes locked onto hers, dark and commanding, a silent order that made her fingers tremble slightly as they reached for the waistband of his pants. With deliberate slowness, she unbuttoned them, the metal clasp giving way under her touch, the sound of the zipper's descent a soft, intimate whisper in the quiet room. All the while, his hand rested firmly in her hair, fingers threading through the strands to tilt her head back, ensuring she didn't break that intense eye contact. It was as if he were teaching her another lesson, one far removed from the lectures on Shakespeare and Austen that had filled this very space just hours before—lectures where she'd sat in the back row, her mind wandering, distracted by the way his voice commanded the room, his words painting vivid worlds that mirrored the turmoil in her own heart.

As his pants slid down his thighs, revealing the dark fabric of his underwear straining against his arousal, Her breath caught in her throat. 

She paused for a heartbeat, her eyes widening at the sight of his cock as he freed it with a deft pull, the thick shaft springing forward, already hard and pulsing with need. 

It was larger than she'd imagined in her secret, stolen fantasies, the kind that had crept into her thoughts during his classes, when he'd pace the front of the room, his authoritative presence making her pulse quicken. 

The head was flushed a deep crimson, glistening with a bead of precum that caught the dim light filtering through the blinds, and she couldn't help but stare, mesmerized by its girth, the veins tracing along the sides like rivers on a map she was desperate to explore. A mix of awe and a thrill of apprehension washed over her, her own body still thrumming from the orgasm he'd just given her, as she leaned in closer, the musky scent of him filling her nostrils—a heady blend of soap, sweat, and raw desire that made her mouth water.

His grip in her hair tightened, guiding her forward with a gentle but insistent pressure, and she parted her lips obediently, her tongue darting out to taste him first. 

The initial contact was electric, the saltiness of his skin exploding on her taste buds as she swirled her tongue around the tip, savoring the slick warmth. 

He let out a low groan, his free hand coming to rest on her shoulder, steadying himself as his eyes rolled back while they closed at the feeling.

She took him deeper, her lips stretching around his considerable size. 

"That's it, Y/N," he whispered, his voice a velvety rumble that sent shivers down her spine, words laced with praise and possession. "Look at me while you take me in—show me how much you want this, how you've been thinking about it in my class, your mind drifting from sonnets to something far more sinful." 

His words ignited a fire within her, each syllable stoking the embers of her desire, making her core clench with renewed need. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking gently at first, then with increasing fervor, the wet sounds of her mouth working him filling the air, a rhythmic counterpoint to her own muffled moans.

He began to guide her movements more assertively, his hand in her hair setting the pace, pulling her back just enough to let her breathe before urging her forward again. 

The friction of his cock sliding against her tongue was intoxicating, the velvety smoothness giving way to the rigid heat beneath, every inch filling her mouth until he hit the back of her throat, making her gag softly—a sound that seemed to spur him on. 

Her hands found his thighs, fingers digging into the firm muscle for support as she bobbed her head, the taste of him growing stronger, more potent with each stroke. 

"You're doing so well, my eager student," he murmured, his breath coming in ragged bursts, "just like how you should be devouring those texts I assign, but now it's my turn to see that hunger in your eyes." 

The reference to her slipping grades flashed through her mind unbidden, a fleeting memory of earlier that day even, when he'd handed back her latest test, his gaze lingering on her as she stared at the red-inked failure, a wave of embarrassment crashing over her that had only deepened her intrigue. 

It was that same mix of shame and unspoken attraction that fueled her now, pushing her to take him deeper, her tongue tracing patterns along the underside of his shaft, feeling every twitch and pulse as he grew even harder.

As the intensity built, his whispers grew more explicit, each one a caress that amplified the heat pooling in her belly. 

"Swallow me down, Y/N, every last drop, like you're proving your dedication," he rasped, his hips thrusting slightly to meet her mouth, the controlled rhythm turning urgent. 

She could feel him swelling against her palate, the first hints of his release building, and she redoubled her efforts, her lips sealed tightly around him, sucking with a fervor born of desperation and desire. 

The room seemed to spin around her, the scent of their shared arousal thick in the air, mingling with the faint chalk dust from the blackboard behind them, a reminder of the classroom's dual purpose. 

Her own body responded in kind, nipples hardening against the fabric of her blouse, thighs pressing together to quell the ache between them, as she lost herself in the act, the emotional weight of her crush on him, his intellectual dominance, the way he'd singled her out after class, his eyes stripping away her defenses, making every sensation more profound.

When he finally tensed, his grip in her hair turning almost painful, she felt the hot rush of his cum flooding her mouth, the salty bitterness coating her tongue in thick waves. 

She swallowed instinctively, her throat working to take it all as he had commanded, the act intimate and overwhelming, a final surrender to the storm they'd unleashed. He held her there for a moment longer, his cock pulsing with aftershocks, before gently pulling her away, his chest heaving as he looked down at her with a mix of satisfaction and something deeper, perhaps a glimmer of the forbidden connection that bound them. 

As she wiped her lips, still tasting him, her mind drifted back to the lecture earlier that day, how she'd sat there, distracted by thoughts of him, his passionate words on classic literature echoing in her ears even now, intertwining with the raw physicality of what they'd just shared, leaving her breathless and yearning for whatever came next.

His chest still heaved with the aftershocks of his release, Henry finally released her hair, his fingers lingering for a moment in the soft strands as if reluctant to let go. 

With a deep, steadying breath, he tucked himself back into his pants, adjusting the fabric with precise, almost clinical movements that belied the intensity of what they'd just shared, his gaze never leaving her face. 

Her, still kneeling, smoothed her skirt down over her trembling thighs, the damp fabric clinging to her skin and reminding her of the slick mess between her legs, her body buzzing with unquenched desire. 

The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the sudden silence, pulling him from his haze; he glanced at it, his brow furrowing with a mix of urgency and regret. "Get dressed properly," he murmured, his voice low and commanding yet laced with a tenderness that made her heart ache.

“Yes, sir,” she said softly.

“We can't risk being caught. You're dismissed for now, Y/N, but be back here tomorrow after class. I expect you to make up for those failed tests in ways that go far beyond mere words." His eyes darkened with promise, the intellectual spark in them reigniting.

She rose unsteadily to her feet, the taste of him on her tongue fueling her yearning for the forbidden lessons yet to come.

. . .

taglist₊‧.°.⋆˚₊‧⋆.

. . .

Lunch hour at Emerson had its own kind of noise, shoes in hallways, laughter that bounced off lockers, the distant clatter of trays, someone’s cassette bleeding through cheap headphones. The campus felt awake and impatient, like everyone was trying to sprint through the middle of the day without thinking too hard about it.

Y/N moved through it like she had somewhere more important to be.

Her ivory off-shoulder sweater sat soft against her skin, slipping just enough at one side to make her feel pretty without trying. The high-waisted tapered pleated trousers made her look sharper, grown up, put-together, like the kind of girl who belonged near professors and bookshelves instead of dorm-room clutter. She pushed her hair behind her ear as she reached Henry’s corridor, already picturing him at the board, chalk dust on his fingers, that controlled calm he wore like armor.

She reached his classroom door and stopped.

Locked.

Y/N blinked, genuinely surprised, and tried the handle again like it might have been a mistake.

Still locked.

She stared at it for a beat, then knocked, firm, quick, two taps that sounded more confident than she felt.

No answer.

She knocked again, leaning in slightly, eyes flicking toward the small window in the door.

Except the window was covered.

Papered over from the inside.

Her pulse jumped.

“What the hell?” she muttered, then knocked a third time, softer, more deliberate.

A pause.

Footsteps.

The lock clicked.

The door opened just a crack, and Henry’s face appeared, calm, composed, but alert in a way that told her he’d been listening before she even knocked the second time.

His gaze swept her quickly, hair, sweater, the line of her shoulder then returned to her eyes.

He stepped back to let her in.

Y/N slipped inside, fast, grateful for the warmth and the hush behind the door. Henry shut it again immediately and relocked it with practiced ease.

Y/N turned in a slow circle, taking it in.

The classroom looked the same, desks aligned, board clean, his papers stacked neatly. But the window covering changed everything. It made the room feel sealed off from the rest of campus.

Y/N looked back at him, eyebrows raised.

“Why is your door suddenly locked,” she asked, then nodded toward the covered window, “and why is that… like that?”

Henry’s expression didn’t change much. His voice stayed even. “I like my privacy.”

Y/N stared at him. “Since when?”

Henry folded his arms. “Since always.”

Y/N’s mouth twitched. “Yes, when it comes to your private life. Your classroom? No. Since today. You never lock this during lunch.”

Henry held her gaze, unmoved. “I do now.”

Y/N stepped closer, eyes narrowing in playful suspicion. “Are you just so happening to make your room more private for us to have…moments?”

Henry’s jaw flexed. “No.”

Y/N tilted her head. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” she insisted softly, still walking closer until she was within his space, close enough to smell his cologne beneath chalk and paper. “Because this is very convenient.”

Henry’s eyes stayed on her face, but the tension in his posture gave him away. Not guilt, calculation. Control. The kind of control he’d started using differently with her lately, not to shut her out, but to keep them from being ripped open by the world.

“I’m protecting my classroom,” he said.

Y/N smiled. “From what?”

Henry’s gaze flicked toward the door, then back to her. “From interruptions.” And prying eyes.

Y/N’s teasing smile softened into something warmer. She lifted a hand and lightly touched his sleeve, then let her fingers slide down to his wrist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I miss you,” she said quietly.

Henry didn’t respond right away, but his eyes darkened, attention sharpening, softness slipping through the cracks.

“You’ll see me in ten minutes,” he murmured.

“That’s not the same,” Y/N said, and her voice carried a hint of need that made Henry’s throat work as he swallowed. “That version of you belongs to everyone. I want… you. Before you have to be him.”

Henry’s expression tightened, not angry, just affected. He tried to hold onto composure, but she could see the fight in him: the pull between responsibility and want.

“Y/N,” he warned softly, like her name was both a caution and a confession.

She stepped closer anyway, close enough that her sweater brushed his suit jacket. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him.

“I’m not asking for a lot,” she murmured. “Just a minute.”

Henry’s gaze dropped to her mouth, brief, controlled, involuntary.

Then he exhaled, the smallest sign of surrender.

“Fine,” he said quietly.

Y/N’s smile flickered, victory, relief, affection all at once.

Henry’s hand came to her waist, firm and grounding, and he pulled her in.

The kiss wasn’t gentle at first.

It was restrained, like he was trying to keep it contained, and then it wasn’t restrained at all, because Y/N’s mouth was warm and familiar and the room was finally private and Henry was tired of pretending he didn’t want her this badly.

Y/N made a soft sound against him and pressed closer, hands sliding up his chest to his shoulders, fingers curling there like she needed something to hold onto.

Henry kissed her again, deeper, then moved her backward until the edge of his desk chair caught behind his knees.

He sat down without breaking the kiss, one hand steady at her waist, the other briefly brushing her thigh, more a guiding touch than anything else, pulling her closer.

Y/N took the invitation without hesitation.

She swung one leg over him and straddled his lap in the desk chair, knees braced on either side, her hands sliding into his hair. The chair rolled a fraction back with the shift of weight, wheels whispering across the floor.

Henry’s grip tightened at her waist, anchoring her there. His mouth moved against hers with quiet intensity, like he’d been waiting all day for this exact moment, this small stolen pocket of time before the world demanded him again.

Y/N pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead hovering near his, lips still close.

“You locked the door,” she whispered, smiling.

Henry’s eyes narrowed slightly, still dark. “I did.”

“Covered the window.”

“Yes.”

Y/N’s smile widened. “For privacy.”

Henry’s hand slid up her back, steady, protective. “For quiet.”

Y/N leaned in again, kissing him softer this time, like she understood the difference.

Henry held her like he meant it, like he was counting the minutes and still refusing to waste them.

And outside the covered window, the hallway kept moving, students laughing and passing by, completely unaware that inside the locked classroom, Henry Creel was letting himself be wanted, just for a moment, before he had to become untouchable again.

The kiss became hungrier, more desperate. Her hands tangled in his hair, holding him to her as she began to move. It was an instinctual, primal motion. She rocked her hips against his, a slow, deliberate grind that was both a tease and a promise.

He groaned into her mouth, his hands sliding down her back to grip her ass, pulling her harder against him. She could feel him growing hard beneath her, a thick, rigid pressure that only fueled her own desire. 

Her movements became more frantic, a desperate search for friction, for release. The classroom, with its locked door and covered windows, became their own private world, the outside world ceasing to exist as they lost themselves in each other.

The friction was maddening, a delicious tease that promised more but delivered only a simmering, building heat. Y/N ground against him, her movements slow and deliberate, savoring the feel of his hard length pressing against her through the layers of their clothes. 

Henry’s hands roamed up her torso, his thumbs brushing against the soft fabric of her sweater before he cupped her breasts, his fingers finding her nipples and pinching them lightly through the fabric. The sensation made her gasp, her hips jerking against his in response.

Just as she was finding a rhythm that sent sparks of pleasure through her, a sharp, loud knock echoed through the room.

Y/N froze, her heart leaping into her throat, immediately going to stand. But Henry’s reaction was swift and shocking. 

One hand flew up, clamping firmly over her mouth, while his other arm wrapped around her waist, holding her in place. His eyes, dark and intense, bored into hers. He didn't speak, but his command was clear. Keep moving.

Stunned, a fresh wave of arousal washing over her at his audacity, she obeyed. She began to rock against him again, slower this time, her movements masked by the sound of the knocking.

"Professor Creel?" a muffled voice called from the hallway. "I have that paper you wanted to drop off."

Henry cleared his throat, his voice impressively steady. "Just leave it by the door, thank you!"

They heard the rustle of paper, and then the sound of footsteps retreating down the hall. The moment they were alone, Henry pulled his hand from her mouth. Y/N let out a shaky breath, a thrill coursing through her.

Without a word, her hands went to his belt. She quickly unbuckled it and unzipped his pants, pulling his hard, thick cock free. The sight of it, so ready and so close, made her mouth water.

He wrapped his hand around her wrist, guiding it to his erection. "Go on," he urged, his voice a low growl.

As her fingers closed around him, a bold, reckless thought took hold. "Henry," she breathed, her hand stroking him slowly. "The day I graduate... in a few years... I want us to fuck on every surface in this classroom. This desk, your chair, the bookshelves... everywhere."

He let out a harsh breath, his head falling back against the chair. "Y/N, don't," he warned, though his hips were already thrusting into her hand. "That’s… an absurd fantasy…”

"Is it?" she whispered, leaning in to nip at his earlobe. "Imagine it. The risk, the memory. You, claiming this space as ours." She tightened her grip on his cock, her strokes becoming more confident. "Tell me you haven't thought about it."

He fought it for a moment, his jaw clenched. But the feel of her hand on him, the illicit fantasy she was painting, was too much. "Fine," he finally gritted out, his voice strained. "Fine. Yes."

He looked at her, his eyes blazing with a raw honesty. "I did think of it when I put the paper on the windows. I covered the glass because I was tired of feeling watched. Tired of you flinching every time someone passed the door. Tired of having to stop before I wanted to.”

The confession was her undoing. A triumphant, possessive surge went through her. He pushed the soft ivory of her sweater up, exposing the swells of her breasts spilling over the top of her lacy bra. He leaned down, his lips and tongue tracing the warm skin, tasting her as she continued to jerk him off, her movements faster, more urgent.

He was close. She could feel it in the way his body tensed, in the ragged breaths he was taking. He was right on the edge, his eyes squeezed shut, his hand fisted in her hair.

And then, the bell rang.

The shrill, piercing sound shattered the moment, jolting them both back to reality. Y/N’s hand stilled. Students would be pouring into the hallway any second. She had to go. With a frustrated groan, she pulled away, leaving him hard and unsatisfied as she quickly slid off his lap and scrambled to fix her clothes. The promise of his release, so close just moments before, now hung heavy and unfulfilled in the air between them.

Her cheeks were flushed; she pressed her palm to her face once like she could wipe the heat away.

Henry fixed himself and stood up more slowly, jaw tight, hands moving with deliberate precision, straightening his tie, adjusting his jacket, forcing composure back over his skin like armor. He crossed to the desk and grabbed a stack of papers as if he’d been grading the entire time.

Y/N watched him, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it.

Henry didn’t look amused.

He looked… frustrated.

Not at her. Not at what they’d done.

At the interruption. At the restraint. At the fact that he had to become Professor Creel again in seconds.

He moved to her, close enough that his voice could stay low.

“After school,” he murmured, eyes steady on hers, “I want you at my apartment.”

Y/N’s breath caught. Her body wanted to say yes before her brain could interfere.

But her brain did interfere.

She swallowed and shook her head once, regret already biting.

“I can’t.”

Henry’s gaze sharpened. “Why not?”

Y/N pulled her bag strap higher on her shoulder like it was a shield. “I have to study.”

His jaw flexed. “For what?”

“Calculus,” she said, grimacing. “I have a test. I can’t fail it.”

Henry’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, it got darker because he understood exactly what she meant, and because he didn’t like that anything had priority over her being with him.

Y/N added quickly, “That’s why I came here. I was hoping to get a little action before I have to spend the rest of the day staring at numbers.”

Henry stared at her for a beat like he didn’t appreciate the honesty being used as a weapon.

“You’re telling me,” he said quietly, “you worked me up and now you’re leaving.”

Y/N’s mouth twitched. “I didn’t work you up. You did that to yourself.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Y/N.”

She took one step back, toward her seat, trying to look composed even though her pulse was still racing. “I’m sorry,” she said, only half sorry. “I’ll make it up to you later.”

Henry’s hands clenched once at his sides before he forced them to relax.

Then, in a low voice, rough with restraint, he asked, “Where are you studying?”

Y/N paused mid-step.

She turned her head slightly, looking at him over her shoulder with a little too much satisfaction.

“The library.”

Henry’s gaze held hers, and Y/N could see it, the calculation, the irritation, the want that didn’t have anywhere to go.

She smiled sweetly. “So I guess you’ll be using your hand tonight.”

Henry’s expression went still.

Dangerously still.

“Go sit down,” he said.

Y/N’s grin widened. “Yes, sir.”

She slipped into her seat like nothing had happened, pulling out her notebook with exaggerated innocence. She crossed her legs slowly, just because she could, and kept her eyes on him the way she knew he hated like she was daring him to do something impossible.

Henry didn’t move.

Not toward her.

Not toward the door.

He stood at the front of the classroom for one long beat, forcing himself back into control while Y/N pretended to arrange her pens.

Then Henry walked to the door.

He unlocked it.

And when he opened it to let the first students in, his face was calm, his posture perfect, his voice steady as he greeted them.

No one would’ve guessed anything had happened.

Except Y/N, watching him from her desk, cheeks warm, lipstick slightly smudged if you looked too closely, caught the way his hand tightened briefly around the doorknob before he let it go.

A small sign of the frustration she’d left simmering under his skin.

And she smiled down at her notebook, already thinking about the library… and how hard it might be to focus with Henry Creel now having an opinion about where she was spending her afternoon.

. . .

The library after school had its own kind of hush, one that wasn’t peaceful so much as enforced.

Pages turned softly. Chairs scraped as quietly as people could manage. Someone coughed into their sleeve like it was a confession. Lamps cast warm circles of light on long tables where students bent over notebooks and pretended they weren’t running out of time.

Y/N sat with Nancy at their usual spot, calculus notebook open, pencil moving steadily across the page. Nancy was “helping,” which meant she was correcting Y/N’s work with the same sharp focus she used when editing her articles, no sugarcoating, no patience for excuses.

“You’re rushing,” Nancy murmured, tapping the page with her own pencil. “Slow down. You keep skipping steps.”

Y/N exhaled, annoyed, and tried again. “I’m a reader and writer, Nance. Not a…mathmatologist…”

Nancy didn’t even look up. She just tapped the page again, harder.

“It’s mathematician,” she said flatly. “And you don’t get to invent new professions just because numbers hurt your feelings.”

Y/N groaned. “They do hurt my feelings.”

Nancy finally glanced at her, expression unimpressed. “Good. Let them. Now rewrite it and show your work before I start charging you tutoring fees.”

She rewrote it.  “Show my work, my a–“

Her pencil snapped.

The tip broke clean off, rolling across the table.

Y/N froze, stared at it, and then muttered, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Nancy didn’t look up. “Use a different one.”

“I know,” Y/N whispered back, already reaching for her bag, then pausing when she realized it wasn’t under her chair.

She glanced behind her toward the aisle.

She’d left her backpack down there earlier when she’d been waiting for Nancy to show up and claim the seat. It was still tucked against the bottom shelf.

“I’ll be back,” Y/N murmured.

Nancy didn’t even look up, just waved her off with the back of her hand. “Don’t get kidnapped.”

Y/N rolled her eyes and slipped away from the table, weaving between shelves and students until the main aisle narrowed and the noise dimmed further.

The book aisle was empty, at least at first glance.

Just rows of spines, quiet air, and that faint smell of paper and dust that made everything feel suspended. Her footsteps sounded too loud on the carpet.

She found her backpack where she’d left it, crouched down, and unzipped it, fingers digging through notebooks and loose papers for a pencil.

No pencil.

Of course.

She shuffled deeper, annoyed, and then felt it.

A presence behind her.

The air shifted.

Before she could turn, an arm wrapped around her waist from behind, firm, possessive, unmistakably familiar.

Y/N’s breath caught.

Henry.

His body pressed close enough that she felt the heat of him through her sweater. His mouth hovered near her ear, voice low and controlled.

“Still studying,” he murmured.

Y/N went completely still, grip tightening on the strap of her backpack. Her pulse spiked so fast it was almost dizzying.

“Henry—” she whispered, half warning, half disbelief.

He didn’t answer the name.

Instead his hand tightened at her waist just slightly, anchoring her there.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” he murmured.

Y/N swallowed. “What I said.”

Henry’s voice dipped lower, a quiet thread of amusement and irritation tangled together. “About me using my hand.”

Heat crawled up her neck instantly.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, scandalized even though she’d started this. “You can’t—”

“I can,” he said quietly. “Because you said it.”

Y/N turned her head slightly, trying to look behind her, but he kept her tucked against him.

“This is the library,” she hissed.

Henry’s hand slid a fraction higher at her waist, guiding her upright. “I noticed.”

Y/N tried to pull away, but his arm held her in place—firm, careful, not hurting, just making it clear he wasn’t letting her slip out of this conversation.

“I’m busy,” she whispered. “I have a calculus test.”

“I know,” Henry said.

“Then—”

Before she could finish, he spun her gently but decisively, turning her around so her back met the bookshelf.

Books rattled softly.

Y/N’s eyes widened. “Henry—”

He was close. Too close. His face tight with restraint, eyes dark, jaw set like he’d been carrying this frustration all day.

“You’re playing with me,” he murmured.

Y/N’s breath caught. “I’m not—”

His hands lifted and caught her wrists.

Y/N’s pulse jumped. “What are you—”

He guided her hands upward, pinning them above her head against the shelf—not cruel, not violent, but firm enough that she felt the difference between teasing and consequence. His body pressed closer, and Y/N’s mind blanked in the most unhelpful way possible.

“Henry,” she breathed, voice suddenly smaller.

He leaned in, mouth near hers, eyes holding hers with a focus that felt like it could burn.

“You wanted time,” he murmured. “You wanted attention.” His grip stayed steady. “Then you left me sitting in that classroom.”

Y/N’s mouth parted, heart racing. “I had to—”

“I know,” he said, and the fact that he said it like he understood and still didn’t care made her stomach flip.

She tried again, softer now. “I’m supposed to be studying.”

Henry’s mouth hovered just a breath from hers. “Then study,” he murmured.

Y/N blinked, confused.

Henry’s gaze dipped to her lips. “Study what happens,” he said quietly.

Then he kissed her.

Not gentle.

Controlled, deep, and deliberately quiet, like he knew exactly how to make it feel dangerous without making a sound loud enough to draw attention. His body pressed closer, his hands still holding her wrists in place above her head, making the bookshelf at her back the only thing keeping her upright.

Y/N made a small, involuntary sound against his mouth, caught between protest and surrender.

Henry pulled back only a fraction, just enough to murmur, “Quiet,” like a warning and a promise at the same time.

Y/N’s eyes fluttered open, wide and bright, and she stared at him like she couldn’t decide whether to push him away or pull him closer.

And down the aisle, the library stayed silent, rows of books standing witness while Henry Creel held her there like he’d waited all day to remind her he hadn’t forgotten a single word she’d said.

The kiss broke, but the space between them vanished. Henry didn't step back; instead, he brought his knee up, driving it between her thighs with a sudden, calculated force. The hard muscle of his thigh pressed directly against her center, the friction shocking and immediate.

Y/N gasped, her head falling back against the spine of a book, the impact rattling the row above her.

“Quiet,” Henry commanded again, his voice a low rasp that vibrated against her skin. He held her wrists pinned above her head, his grip possessive, anchoring her to him and to the shelf. He didn't let her pull away. He didn't let her think.

“Study,” he murmured, the word thick with implication as he ground his thigh upward, rubbing against the sensitive bundle of nerves through the wool of her trousers. “Tell me what you’re studying.”

Y/N’s eyes fluttered shut, her hips jerking involuntarily against him. The pressure was maddening, a delicious ache that built with every deliberate thrust of his leg. “I’m... I’m studying friction,” she breathed, the words barely audible.

Henry let out a dark, humorless chuckle. “Smart girl.” He shifted his position, angling his thigh just right, the heel of his shoe digging in as he drove her back against the books. “But you’re not doing it right.”

“Then show me,” she challenged, her voice breathless, her bravado returning despite the way her body was melting into his.

Henry didn't answer. He simply moved his hand from her wrist to the waistband of her trousers, his fingers hooking into the fabric. With a deliberate, agonizing slowness, he pushed them down just enough to expose her. The cool air of the library hit her skin, sending a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.

He didn't touch her directly yet. Instead, he pressed the heel of his palm against her, applying steady, rhythmic pressure against her panties that made her moan softly. Then, his fingers slid down, pulling her panties aside, his index and middle fingers slick with the moisture gathering between her legs.

“Look at me, love,” he ordered.

Y/N forced her eyes open, her gaze locking onto his. His eyes were dark, dilated, and utterly focused on her. He didn't look away. He watched every micro-expression, every gasp, every flicker of pleasure that crossed her face.

He slid one finger inside her.

Y/N’s back arched off the shelf, her fingers curling around his forearms, her nails digging into his skin. The stretch was sudden, filling her, stretching her, and she gasped, the sound loud in the quiet library.

Henry didn't stop there. He added a second finger, scissoring them open, stretching her further, preparing her for what was to come. He moved his fingers in a slow, curling rhythm, hitting that spot inside her that made her see stars.

“Henry,” she whimpered, her head falling back against the books again. “Please.”

He didn't answer. He just watched her, his face tight with restraint, his jaw set like he was fighting a war of his own. He pulled his fingers out slightly, then pushed them back in, harder this time. The sound of his fingers moving in and out of her was obscene, loud in the quiet library, and he didn't try to hide it.

“Too much?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.

“More,” Y/N breathed, her hips rocking against his hand, chasing the friction. “Please, Henry, more.”

Henry groaned, a low, ragged sound. He picked up the pace, his fingers moving faster, deeper, hitting that spot with ruthless precision. He curled his fingers, massaging the walls of her pussy, his thumb rubbing against her clit in small, tight circles.

Y/N’s hips bucked wildly, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She was close. So close.

“Henry, I’m—” she choked out, her voice breaking.

He didn't let her finish. He pulled his hand away.

Y/N’s eyes snapped open, her body going rigid. She looked at him, confused, her heart hammering against her ribs. “What—”

He didn't answer. He simply stepped back, leaving her empty and aching, her body trembling with the need for release. His expression unreadable, but his eyes held a dark, satisfied glint.

“That’s enough for now,” he said, his voice calm, detached, placing his fingers in his mouth so simply, as if sucking chocolate off his fingers. “You have a test to study for. And you can’t take it if you’re distracted.”

She whined as he then buttoned her trousers. The library’s silence pressed in again, the distant turn of a page, a chair moving somewhere far away, the faint hum of lights.

Y/N swallowed and looked up at him, still slightly dazed.

“You know,” she whispered, voice turning sly even through the sexual frustration, “months ago you would’ve been irritated at me for not studying.”

Henry’s gaze held hers. “I’m irritated now.”

Y/N’s brows lifted. “You’re the one who came here.”

Henry’s jaw flexed again, because she wasn’t wrong.

Y/N’s mouth curved, small and pleased. “You’re a bad influence on me.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed. “No.”

Y/N leaned closer, voice conspiratorial. “I think I’m a bad influence on you.”

Henry went still at that.

For a second, the professor mask tried to settle over his face out of habit, disapproval, restraint, correction.

Then it didn’t quite fit.

Because the truth was: he had come here. He had followed her. He had chosen this over being sensible.

And that meant something.

Henry’s voice came quiet, almost unwilling. “You make me careless.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard by how honest that sounded.

She smiled slowly. “Good.”

Henry’s eyes darkened. “Not good.”

Y/N’s smile widened. “A little good.”

Henry exhaled, frustrated with himself more than with her. He glanced down the aisle again, then back at her.

“You need to go back,” he murmured. “To your table.”

Y/N’s face fell just slightly. “You’re leaving.”

Henry’s gaze softened a fraction, just enough to make her chest tighten. “You have a test.”

Y/N stared at him.

Then, quieter: “And you.”

Henry’s jaw tightened. “And me.”

Y/N reached down for her backpack, zipping it with careful hands.

“Henry,” she whispered as she straightened.

He looked at her.

“You would’ve hated this version of you,” she said softly. “Before.”

Henry’s eyes stayed on hers, steady and unreadable. “I know.”

Y/N swallowed. “Do you hate it now?”

A beat of silence.

Then Henry said, very quietly, “No.”

It wasn’t a grand confession.

But it landed like one.

He stepped closer and, so carefully it almost looked accidental, brushed his knuckles against her hand, a brief touch that grounded her again.

Then he leaned in, lips near her ear, voice low enough to be swallowed by the books.

“Go,” he murmured. “And don’t look at me when you sit down.”

Y/N’s eyes brightened. “Why?”

“Because you’ll smile,” Henry said, and there was the faintest edge of resignation in it. “And Nancy will know.”

Y/N bit her lip hard to keep from laughing out loud.

“Yes, sir,” she whispered.

Henry’s gaze held hers one more second, warm and warning and possessive all at once, then he stepped back into the shadow of the shelves and disappeared out of the aisle first, moving like he belonged here for perfectly innocent reasons.

Y/N waited a breath longer, smoothed her sweater one last time, forced her face into something studious.

Then she picked up her backpack and walked back toward Nancy, trying to look like a girl who’d just gone to fetch a pencil, not a girl whose world had been tipped sideways between the stacks.

And when she sat down, opening her calculus notebook with hands that were still not entirely steady, the numbers looked the same as they always had.

Only Y/N didn’t.

. . . 

By the time they were both willing to admit defeat, the library lamps had started to feel too bright.

Nancy stretched her fingers one by one like she’d been typing for hours, then slapped her notebook shut with finality. Y/N stared at her calculus page for another long second as if the numbers might change if she glared hard enough, then let her pencil drop onto the paper with a quiet, exhausted sigh.

“That’s enough,” Nancy declared.

Y/N blinked. “Is it?”

“Yes,” Nancy said, already gathering her things. “If I look at one more derivative I’m going to commit a crime.”

Y/N snorted, rubbing her eyes. “Same.”

They packed up slowly, Y/N stacking her notes into a messy pile, Nancy organizing everything into sharp, neat order because she was physically incapable of leaving chaos unchallenged.

Nancy slung her tote over her shoulder and looked at Y/N. “Okay. Dinner.”

Y/N’s eyes lifted, a little blank. “Dinner?”

“Yes, dinner,” Nancy repeated. “Food. The thing that keeps you alive.”

Y/N nodded vaguely, still half in the mindset of studying. “Right.”

Nancy started walking as they left the table. “Do we get something from the dining center, or do we actually go out?”

Y/N hesitated.

Not long. Just long enough.

Nancy clocked it instantly.

She stopped in the aisle between tables and turned to face her, eyes narrowed. “Oh my God.”

Y/N blinked innocently. “What?”

“You’re going to skip dinner,” Nancy said flatly.

Y/N made a face. “No, I’m not.”

Nancy pointed at her like a prosecutor. “Yes you are. You’re doing that thing where you pretend you’re thinking about food, but really you’re thinking about—”

“Nancy,” Y/N warned.

“—hanging out with Creel,” Nancy finished anyway, unbothered.

Y/N’s cheeks warmed. “I didn’t say that.”

Nancy leaned closer, voice low and viciously accurate. “You didn’t have to.”

Y/N tried to keep her expression calm, but she couldn’t stop the small smile from twitching at the corner of her mouth.

Nancy stared at it like it offended her personally.

“You hang out way more with your professor boyfriend than with your actual roommate,” Nancy said.

Y/N blinked. “That’s not true.”

Nancy’s eyebrows lifted. “It is true.”

Y/N shrugged, helpless. “He’s… available.”

Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “He is not available. He is forty years old and emotionally constipated.”

Y/N burst out laughing so hard she had to clamp her hand over her mouth.

Nancy kept walking, still irritated. “And don’t laugh. I’m serious.”

Y/N hurried to catch up. “He’s not forty.”

“Mentally, he’s 80,” Nancy replied.

Y/N bumped her shoulder lightly. “You’re dramatic.”

Nancy shot her a look. “You’re the one having an illicit romance in a faculty office like it’s a hobby.”

Y/N made a face. “Okay, first of all, rude. Second of all, he doesn’t move like he’s eighth…” she teased, wiggling her eyebrows. 

“Disgusting.”

“And third of all, it’s not a hobby.”

Nancy stopped again, turning fully now. “Then what is it?”

Y/N’s smile faded a little, not all the way, just enough for honesty to show through. “It’s… him,” she said quietly.

Nancy held her gaze, waiting.

Y/N’s voice softened further. “It’s not just sex, Nancy. I mean, yes, obviously, that too. But it’s not justthat.”

Nancy’s expression didn’t change, but something in her eyes eased, like she was still annoyed, but she was listening.

Y/N swallowed. “I like being with him.”

Nancy’s mouth tightened. “You like being with him so much you’re going to skip dinner with me.”

Y/N opened her mouth, then closed it again. She didn’t have a clean defense.

They walked in silence for a few steps, out of the library and into the colder hallway, their footsteps echoing faintly.

Then Y/N spoke again, quieter, more deliberate.

“You know you’re not just… my roommate, right?”

Nancy’s head turned slightly. “I knew that.”

Y/N’s fingers curled around her backpack strap. “Seriously, you’re really my only friend since freshman year.”

Nancy blinked, caught off guard by the softness.

Y/N kept going before she could chicken out.

“We’re going into junior year soon,” she said, voice slightly strained. “And I realized today that if anything ever happened, like, if I ever really needed someone,” she swallowed, “it’s you. It’s always been you.”

Nancy’s face went still.

Y/N’s mouth trembled into a small, earnest smile. “I love him,” she admitted. “I do.”

Nancy’s eyes narrowed at the admission, but she didn’t interrupt.

“But I love you too,” Y/N said quickly, as if she needed Nancy to hear it clearly. “In a different way, obviously. Like… you’re my person here. You’ve been my person. Your Gordie to my Chris.”

Nancy’s throat bobbed once at the reminder as she swallowed, and she looked away like she hated being seen reacting.

Y/N’s voice warmed. “After everything this school year, after visiting Hawkins, after… all of it—after you saving my ass a hundred times—”

Nancy scoffed. “That’s an exaggeration.”

“It’s not,” Y/N insisted. “You keep me alive.”

Nancy looked back at her, expression sharp and defensive, but her eyes had gone softer around the edges.

“You’re being emotional,” Nancy muttered.

“I am,” Y/N said, completely unapologetic. “Because you matter.”

Nancy stared at her for a beat, then sighed—long and tired, like she was giving up on pretending she didn’t care.

“Okay,” Nancy said. “Fine.”

Y/N blinked. “Fine what?”

Nancy rolled her eyes. “Fine, you’re not allowed to skip dinner.”

Y/N laughed. “Nancy.”

Nancy pointed at her. “No. You’re coming with me. We’re going to eat. Then you can go be feral with your professor.”

Y/N choked on a laugh. “You’re crazy.”

Nancy started walking again. “Dining center or off campus?”

Y/N hurried after her, still smiling. “Off campus.”

Nancy nodded. “Good.”

Then, after a beat, like she couldn’t help herself, she added quieter, “And… I’m glad you have him.”

Y/N’s chest warmed.

Nancy immediately ruined the moment by snapping, “But if he screws you over again, I’ll ruin his life.”

Y/N grinned. “I know.”

Nancy’s mouth tightened. “Good.”

And as they walked toward dinner together, bickering, laughing, still a little exhausted from studying, Y/N felt it settle in her chest with calm certainty:

She could love Henry.

But Nancy Wheeler was still the reason she didn’t feel alone at Emerson.

. . . 

Y/N slipped her key into Henry’s lock like she’d done it a hundred times, even though the fact that she could still made her heart do something stupid every time.

The door opened on warm air and quiet.

She stepped inside and shut it behind her with her heel, smiling to herself before she even spoke.

“Henry?” she called, voice bright and sing-song, letting the name stretch like a dare. “Your favorite bad influence has arrived.”

No answer.

Y/N kicked off her shoes and walked deeper into the apartment, coat still on, bag slipping off her shoulder and landing on the chair by the door. She glanced toward the living room, lamp off, no record playing, the space neat in the way his home always was. Too neat for someone who claimed he wasn’t home.

She smiled wider.

“Oh,” she called again, louder now, “don’t tell me you’re pretending you’re not here.”

Silence.

Y/N tilted her head, listening.

Then she heard it, faint at first, but unmistakable.

Water.

Running.

A shower.

Her stomach flipped.

Y/N’s smile turned wicked as she wandered toward his office first, pushing the door open with a casual ease.

Empty.

Of course it was. The desk chair tucked in, papers stacked, everything arranged like his life depended on it.

She stepped into his bedroom next, checking the edge of the bed, the dresser, the faint scent of soap and clean cotton. She let herself picture him there for half a second and then cut the thought off before it could get too warm.

“Professor,” she called again, and her tone dropped lower now, more intimate, “you can’t ignore me. I know you’re here.”

The water kept running.

Y/N laughed softly and turned toward the bathroom hallway, voice carrying a little flirty threat as she walked.

“I hope you know,” she called, “I’m still thinking about the library.”

Still no answer.

Y/N’s grin widened. “No commentary? No lecture?”

She reached the bathroom door and stopped, hearing the shower clearly now, steady, loud, steam hissing faintly through the crack.

Y/N’s voice softened into something deliberate. “You left me…distracted all afternoon,” she called. “I’m here for round three.”

A beat.

Nothing.

Y/N scoffed theatrically to the empty hallway. 

She pushed the bathroom door open.

Steam rolled out immediately, warm and thick, fogging her lashes. The light was on, casting a soft glow through the haze. She couldn’t see him yet, just the silhouette of the shower curtain, the sound of water pounding against tile.

Y/N stepped inside and shut the door behind her.

Her pulse was loud now.

She started pulling her sweater up as she walked, peeling it off over her head and tossing it onto the sink counter. The rest followed, simple, careless, familiar, clothes falling in a trail behind her like she wasn’t nervous at all.

She reached the tub, fingers closing around the shower curtain.

The water was loud. The steam was heavy. Her skin prickled with heat before she even stepped in.

And she pulled the curtain back.

Henry stood there under the water, hair wet, shoulders slick with steam, one hand braced against the tile. He looked up at her instantly, and the shift in his face was immediate.

Not surprise.

Recognition.

Want, tightening behind his eyes.

“Jesus,” he muttered, voice rough.

Y/N smiled, pleased. “Hello to you too.”

Henry’s gaze swept her, fast, controlled, hungry, and then snapped back to her face like he was trying to pretend he had any restraint left.

“You let yourself in,” he said.

Y/N stepped closer to the edge of the tub, completely unbothered. “You gave me a key.”

Henry’s jaw flexed. Water streamed down his cheek as he stared at her like he was deciding whether to scold her or pull her in.

Y/N tilted her head. “Are you going to let me in, or are you going to make me beg?”

Henry’s eyes darkened.

He reached out, hand catching her wrist gently but firmly.

“Get in,” he said.

Y/N’s breath caught at the command, at the way his voice sounded under the water, low, intimate, no professor in it at all.

She stepped into the shower, warmth closing around her instantly. Henry shifted to make room, one hand still on her wrist as if he didn’t quite trust her not to vanish, or maybe didn’t trust himself not to pull her too close too fast.

Y/N moved into him anyway, smiling up at him through the steam.

“You were ignoring me,” she accused softly.

Henry’s mouth hovered near hers. “You were shouting.”

“Flirting,” Y/N corrected.

Henry’s gaze dipped to her lips. “Provoking.”

Y/N grinned. “Same thing.”

Henry exhaled, and then, still without saying anything else, his hand slid to her waist and pulled her against him, steam and water and heat swallowing the space between them until there wasn’t room for anything but the fact that she’d come here looking for him.

The moment their bodies met, skin against slick, wet skin, a jolt of pure electricity shot through them both. The water was a hot, cascading blanket, steam swirling around them, creating a world that contained only the two of them. His hand on her waist was a brand, his other hand sliding up her slick back to tangle in her wet hair.

"Provoking me in my own home," he murmured against her lips, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "You really don't know when to stop, do you, love?"

"I know exactly when to stop," she breathed, her hands roaming over the planes of his chest, her thumbs brushing against his nipples. "I just haven't gotten there yet."

He growled, a deep, primal sound, and crushed his mouth to hers. This was no gentle kiss. It was a hungry, desperate claiming, a battle of tongues and teeth. The water poured over them, plastering her hair to her face, streaming between their lips as they devoured each other. He backed her up against the cool tile wall, the contrast a shock to her overheated skin.

He broke the kiss, both of them breathing heavily. His eyes were dark, almost black with lust as he looked down at her.  "You left me so hard in that library I could barely think straight," he growled, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate through her chest. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his breath hot and wet. "I had to go back to my office and jerk off like a fucking teenager, just imagining you coming back for me."

A wicked, defiant smile touched her lips, her eyes glinting in the dim light. "Did you think about me on my knees for you? Maybe jerking you off like I did?" She teased, her hips rocking instinctively against the empty air. "You were thinking about me since then?"

"Every goddamn second," he admitted, his hand sliding down her stomach, his fingers parting her slick folds with a rough, possessive gesture. He groaned as he felt how ready she was, the evidence of her arousal coating his skin. "You're soaked. Is this from thinking about me in the library? About my fingers inside you while you had to be quiet?"

"Yes," she gasped, her head falling back against the tiles, her eyes rolling back. "Henry, please..."

"Please what?" he demanded, his voice a harsh whisper that was almost drowned out by the spray of the water. "Please touch you? Please fuck you? Tell me what you want, Y/N."

"I want you to fuck me," she cried out, her voice echoing off the tiled walls, desperate and raw. "Right here. Now."

He didn't need to be told twice. He hooked his hands under her thighs, lifting her effortlessly. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms circling his neck as he pinned her to the wall. He positioned himself at her entrance, the thick head of his cock teasing her, dragging against her sensitive folds, collecting her wetness.

"Look at me," he commanded, his eyes dark, almost black with lust. "I want you to watch me as I fuck you."

She locked her gaze with his, her eyes wide with anticipation. He didn't thrust into her right away. Instead, he teased her, rubbing the head of his cock against her clit, the slow, maddening friction making her squirm in his arms.

"Henry," she whined, her hips bucking, trying to take him inside her.

"Patience," he murmured, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "You wanted to play games in my classroom. Now we play by my rules."

He finally gave her what she wanted, but not all at once. He pushed the head of his cock inside her, stretching her, filling her slowly, inch by agonizing inch. Y/N’s eyes rolled back in her head, her mouth falling open in a silent scream.

When he was finally buried to the hilt. He could feel her inner walls fluttering around him, a desperate, silent plea for more.

"Please," she begged, her voice a broken whisper. "Please, Henry."

"Please what?" he asked again, his voice a low growl. "Tell me how much you want it."

"I want it so much," she cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders. "I want you to fuck me hard. I want to feel you for days."

That was all it took. He pulled out almost all the way, then slammed back into her, a hard, deep thrust that stole her breath. He set a punishing rhythm, the water making every movement slick and fluid. Each thrust was deep and powerful, hitting a spot inside her that made stars explode behind her eyes. The sound of their bodies slapping together, mixed with the pounding of the shower, was the most erotic music she had ever heard.

"You feel so fucking good," he growled, his face buried in the crook of her neck, his teeth nipping at her wet skin. "So tight and wet for me. This cunt was made for me, wasn't it?"

"Yes," she whimpered, her nails digging into his shoulders, leaving red crescents behind. "It's all for you."

He shifted his angle, hitting her clit with every stroke, and the pleasure became almost unbearable. "That's it," he urged, his voice strained. "Cum for me. I want to feel you cum all over my cock. I want to feel you soak me."

The command was all it took. Her orgasm ripped through her, a violent, all-consuming wave that left her shaking and breathless. Her inner walls clenched around him, milking him, pulling him deeper. Her back arched off the wall, her head thrown back, her mouth open in a silent scream.

"Fuck, Y/N," he groaned, his own release barreling through him. He buried himself inside her one last time, his body shouldering as he emptied himself into her, his hot cum filling her, hot and thick, coating her inner walls.

They stayed like that for a moment, bodies entwined, the water cascading over them as they both struggled to catch their breath. He slowly lowered her to her shower floor, his arms wrapping around her, holding her up as her legs trembled. He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed.

"You're going to be the death of me," he whispered, a faint, exhausted smile on his lips.

Y/N smiled back, her heart hammering against her ribs. "What a way to go."

Henry let out a quiet breath against her mouth that sounded like he wanted to argue and didn’t have the strength.

Instead, he held her there another second, forehead pressed to hers, eyes closed, water sliding down both of them in slow streams before he shifted his grip and guided her more securely under the spray.

“Stand,” he murmured.

Y/N tried.

Her knees betrayed her immediately, wobbling with a small, helpless laugh that didn’t match how wrecked she felt.

Henry tightened his arms around her without hesitation, keeping her upright like he’d done it a hundred times. His hands were firm at her waist and lower back, steadying her with practiced care, the kind that felt instinctive now, like his body knew what she needed even when his mind was still catching up.

“Easy,” he said again, quieter.

Y/N breathed out slowly, letting her weight rest into him. Her cheek brushed his shoulder as she tried to get her legs back under her.

Henry opened his eyes and looked at her, really looked. Not with hunger now. With something calmer. Something that made the heat in her chest feel less frantic and more… full.

His mouth softened at the corner. “What a way to go,” he repeated, almost to himself, as if tasting the line.

Y/N smiled, still dazed. “You love me.”

Henry’s gaze flicked to hers, sharp even in gentleness. “Don’t.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said, but his hands stayed on her like he didn’t know how to stop.

Y/N’s smile turned smaller, quieter. “Like what?”

Henry didn’t answer.

He shifted his hand up her spine and smoothed her wet hair back from her face with a tenderness that made her throat tighten. His thumb brushed her cheek once, wiping away water as if he could separate it from anything else.

Then he did something surprisingly domestic.

He reached behind her for the soap.

Y/N blinked. “What are you doing?”

Henry’s voice was low, a little rough. “You’re still shaking.”

“So?”

“So,” he repeated, as if the word itself irritated him. Then, softer: “Let me.”

Y/N went still for a second.

It wasn’t the request that made her pause. It was the tone, like he needed this, like it steadied him to do something gentle with his hands after using them for anything else.

She swallowed. “Okay.”

He lathered soap between his palms and started washing her slowly, careful, thorough, unhurried. Not like a man rushing to clean up. Like a man who wanted to touch her without taking anything. Like he wanted to give instead.

His hands moved over her arms first, sliding from shoulder to wrist, then back up again, thumb circling lightly where he knew her pulse lived. He washed her like she was precious, like she was the only thing in his world that mattered.

Y/N watched him, chest warm, eyes heavy.

He didn’t look at her right away. He focused on what he was doing, jaw set in concentration, as if this was a task he could do perfectly.

Then he lifted her hand and turned it palm-up, washing her fingers one by one with quiet patience. His mouth pressed briefly to her knuckles, so quick it almost didn’t register as a kiss, more a reflex than a decision.

Y/N’s breath caught.

Henry’s eyes flicked up to hers, caught the look on her face, and he stilled for a moment.

“What?” he murmured.

Y/N shook her head. “Nothing.”

Henry’s gaze sharpened. “Y/N.”

She smiled softly, helpless. “You’re… being sweet.”

Henry looked mildly offended, as if sweetness was a word she’d accused him of. “I’m washing you.”

“Yeah,” Y/N said, voice quieter now. “That.”

Henry went back to it without arguing, but his touch got even gentler, hands sliding over her shoulders, down her back, smoothing soap away with warm water. He paused at her waist and held her there for a moment as if memorizing the shape of her.

Not possession.

Reverence.

Y/N felt something in her chest pull tight. She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his shoulder, small, quiet, gratitude disguised as affection.

Henry didn’t speak. He just exhaled slowly and continued, palms warm and steady as they moved.

When he finished washing her, he reached behind her again and grabbed the washcloth, rinsing it under the water.

Then he brought it up to her face.

Y/N blinked. “Henry—”

“Hold still,” he murmured.

He wiped gently along her cheekbones and jaw, careful around her eyes, like the act mattered. Like he was undoing something rough with softness.

And when he was done, he kept his hand at her cheek for a beat too long.

Y/N’s eyes met his, full and quiet.

Her gaze had changed sometime in the last few minutes, from dazed satisfaction to something deeper. Something steady.

Henry saw it.

He always saw it now.

“What is that look?” he asked, voice low.

Y/N’s smile trembled. “I love you.”

Henry’s throat worked as he swallowed.

For a second he looked like he might fight the tenderness, might try to deflect.

Instead, he leaned in and kissed her slowly.

Not hungry.

Not demanding.

A kiss that felt like he was answering the love in her eyes with the only language he trusted.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers again.

“I love you,” he said quietly, almost like he was still getting used to the sound of it.

Y/N’s eyes fluttered shut for a second. “Say it again.”

Henry huffed a breath that might have been a laugh. “You never get tired of that.”

“No,” she whispered. “I don’t.”

Henry’s arms slid around her again, pulling her close, holding her upright without needing to, just because he wanted her there.

“You’re still shaking,” he murmured into her hair.

Y/N smiled against his chest. “That’s your fault.”

Henry’s hand smoothed down her back. “Then I’ll fix it.”

He kissed the top of her head once, then guided her toward the edge of the tub.

“Come on,” he said softly. “Before you fall.”

Y/N let him lead her out, water trailing down her skin, steam clinging to both of them. Henry grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her first, tight, careful, like he was making sure she was warm before he worried about himself.

Y/N watched him do it with that same look, soft, shining, full of love she didn’t know how to hide anymore.

Henry met her gaze over the towel, eyes dark and quiet.

He leaned in and kissed her again, brief, reverent, then murmured, “Come to bed.”

And Y/N, warm and trembling and loved, followed him like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Henry’s bedroom was warmer than the hallway, the air still carrying faint traces of steam as they came in from the bathroom. The lamp on the nightstand cast a low glow, soft enough to make everything gentle, bright enough to show the damp edges of their hair and the way the towels clung to them.

Y/N stood near the foot of the bed, wrapped in one of his towels, still a little unsteady in that afterglow way, skin flushed, lashes damp, breathing finally slowing. Henry toweled off quickly, practical as always, like he didn’t trust himself to linger in the open air too long.

Then he crossed to his dresser and pulled out a shirt.

A soft one, worn in, clean, clearly his. He shook it out once and came back to her with it in both hands.

Y/N blinked up at him. “What’s that?”

“A shirt,” Henry said.

“I know that,” she murmured, amused. “Why.”

Henry’s eyes flicked over her face, then down, brief, controlled, before returning to her eyes. “Because you’re not sleeping in my bed with wet hair and nothing on.”

Y/N’s mouth curved. “Who made you boss?”

Henry didn’t answer. He simply held the shirt open.

Y/N let the towel loosen slightly, the fabric slipping down her arms, and Henry’s gaze tightened, eyes trailing down as if he were forcing himself to keep it neutral.

“Arms up,” he said.

Y/N complied, smiling.

Henry slid the shirt over her head carefully, slow enough not to catch her hair, his fingers brushing her temples as he guided the collar down. His hands lingered, just for a beat, at the sides of her neck, warm against her skin.

Y/N’s smile turned smaller, softer.

Henry tugged the shirt down over her shoulders, smoothing it along her arms, his fingertips tracing down the outside of her upper arm like he couldn’t help himself. The shirt fell past her hips, swallowing her in his scent and his warmth, and he kept adjusting it like he had all the time in the world.

Y/N watched him with that quiet, delighted expression that made him look away for half a second.

Then she teased, voice light. “You can’t keep your hands off me.”

Henry paused.

He lifted his eyes to hers, face composed, but there was a faint edge of annoyance in it, mostly at her for noticing.

“I can,” he said.

Y/N’s brows lifted. “Oh?”

Henry’s hands moved to the hem of the shirt, pulling it down another inch as if the extra fabric would make him more convincing. “I’m putting you in clothes.”

Y/N smiled wider. “Still touching me.”

Henry’s jaw flexed. He stepped closer, and for a second she thought he might kiss her just to shut her up.

Instead, he corrected her with quiet seriousness.

“I’m putting you in clothes,” he repeated, “so I can keep my hands off you.”

She laughed softly. “That makes no sense.”

“It does,” Henry said, tone steady, like this was a perfectly logical argument.

Y/N tilted her head. “Explain.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed slightly, choosing his words. “If you fall asleep in my bed nude, you will be warm and soft and right next to me, and I will not sleep.”

Y/N’s smile turned wicked. “That sounds like a you problem.”

Henry’s mouth tightened. “Exactly.”

Y/N stepped closer, the oversized shirt brushing his stomach, and looked up at him through damp lashes. “So you’re dressing me…for your self-control?”

Henry held her gaze. “Yes.”

Y/N hummed, pleased. “That’s kind of sweet.”

Henry looked faintly offended by the label. “It’s practical.”

Y/N’s fingers curled lightly into the front of his towel. “Sure.”

Henry’s hand, unable to help itself, slid to her waist for a brief second, a firm hold that lasted just long enough to betray him.

Y/N’s smile widened. “Very practical.”

Henry exhaled slowly through his nose, resigned. “Go to bed.”

Y/N leaned in, kissed his cheek once, quick and warm, and then whispered, “You’re obsessed and I love it.”

Henry’s eyes darkened. “I am trying to be disciplined.”

Y/N moved toward the bed, climbing onto the sheets and settling against the pillows like she belonged there now. She watched him as he turned away to pull clothes from the dresser, the towel still slung low on his hips.

Then he dropped it.

Just like that, casual, efficient, like nudity was nothing but another step in his routine.

Y/N’s eyes betrayed her immediately.

They trailed down his body in one slow, unashamed sweep, shoulders, chest, stomach, the lines of him made sharper by the lamplight and the lingering heat of the shower. For a second she forgot to blink.

She’d seen him like this before, and it still didn’t feel real.

Still didn’t feel like something that belonged to her life.

Her mouth went dry as the thought hit again, absurd and warm and disorienting: he was hers.

Someone as beautiful as him let her touch him, hold him, see him stripped down and unguarded. He didn’t belong to the classroom or the school or the version of himself that stayed perfectly controlled.

Right now, he belonged here. With her.

Y/N cleared her throat, trying to reclaim a shred of dignity.

“You know,” she said lightly, voice turning flirty to cover the awe, “if you’re going to walk around like that, you can’t keep pretending this is about discipline.”

Henry glanced over his shoulder, unimpressed. “Get into bed.”

Y/N’s grin widened. “I am in bed.”

Henry looked at her for one beat, eyes darkening just slightly when he saw her watching him like she might never get tired of it.

Then he turned back to the dresser, pulling on his shirt and sleep pants with the same neat precision he applied to everything, buttoning, adjusting, making order out of temptation.

Y/N stayed propped on her elbows, smiling to herself, still a little stunned by how lucky she felt.

When Henry finally came to the bed and switched off the lamp, darkness softened the room instantly.

He slid in beside her, and Y/N scooted closer without hesitation, curling into his side under the covers like the shirt had never been the point.

Henry’s arm came around her, firm and familiar.

And even in the dark, even after all his talk about restraint, his hand still found her back, steady and warm, lingering like his body didn’t know how to stop choosing her.

. . .

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