“you are such a soft & messy thing”

The back rows housed those students who came purely because missing a lecture meant failing swathes of assignments. Asking for a copy of the re-typed lecture notes proved futile – hardly legible even in print, written in some half-formed shorthand that was almost certainly punishment for a lack of punctuality. For those already struggling to keep up, it was an academic death sentence. 

The middle of the hall was for those who kept up relatively well, by the professors' standards. These oft demonstrated the most promise in assignments, and were poised and ready for his irregular habit of asking questions in a lecture format, as opposed to waiting for the seminar. 

The front row, if not sparsely populated by those who arrived too late for their regular seat, was reserved for those who attended purely to spectate the youngest associate professor on campus. At just 28, Professor Night had beaten the previous record by five years at least, and was, in his younger age, undeniably a sight to behold. 

You found yourself at home on the second row. As if that did anything to mark you as different to the admirers before you.

Summer term made for a particularly fierce struggle for front-row seating. The tailored suit blazer he usually wore was abandoned long before reaching the lecture hall each day, and, if you the spectators, were lucky, so too was the tie. This particular day, being well into the midst of the most oppressive heatwave in the last three years, marked the first occasion on which the first two buttons of his pressed shirt were abandoned, too. It felt Victorian, really, to have had to cross your legs beneath the cramped desks at the suggestion of a clavicle. Thankfully, the steady dishevelment of his hair made it feel marginally less puritanical, only marginally, as lithe, splayed fingers pushed the defiant curls back from his forehead as they sprang forth from their gel in the humidity. 

The old building did nothing to make the heat any better. Cramped as you all were in the hall, the old stone could only do so much to block out the sun, even this early in the day. For a moment, you swore that the hand that rose to brush his neck, dipping beneath the collar just enough to move the fabric further from his skin, was to wipe at a slow bead of sweat. If he hadn’t tossed his papers to the desk in defeat just moments afterwards, you may have disregarded it on the grounds of heat stroke. 

“Do not expect this to become a regular occurrence, but I am ending class there.” The glasses came off next, another piece of his usually staunch uniform discarded – how strange for an otherwise remarkable Thursday morning to quickly become the slow strip tease of your otherwise upright professor. “I urge you all to cool off. We will reconvene next week.” 

The order in which the hall emptied followed much the same regime as the seating arrangements. The back scuttling out first, followed by the far less hurried middle, and finally those too busy fawning to realise the class was over brought up the rear. Where you may have expected a heat-induced lethargy to have slowed the procession out the door, the usual order was disrupted, people springing from seats as if powered by motors. At least that may have explained the disgusting 8:30 temperature.

“Sir?” The honorific left your lips before you could think of a particularly good reason for it. Unlike your peers, you had not leapt at the chance to leave, even as Professor Night moved with significantly more haste than was usual for the end of his classes. He paused, regardless, papers halfway to hand, glasses tucked neatly into the front of the unbuttoned shirt. It was strange how strikingly he resembled a student, suddenly so undone in the way he was, even as his forehead creased in surprise, like a deer in headlights, that anyone could possibly want anything from him in conditions such as these. 

“Sir,” your hand lowered slowly, wetting your lips. “I was hoping that I might ask you some questions on the latest assignment? The one due next week?” 

The papers lowered to the desk, and once again the hand rose to his collar, following the same path as moments before. The hall emptied. 

For a moment, he only looked at you. It was undeniable that his eyes dipped, grazing over the edge of the camisole that had been your only defence against melting before you reached class. It wasn’t something you would typically wear to a lecture, dipping a little too low to be comfortable around some of the boys you shared class with, and barely made more modest by your thin overshirt. Against what you believed possible, your cheeks warmed further as his gaze lingered, longer than necessary to assess if you had violated the common-sense dress code. He relented at last, as the echo of students began to fade. 

“You?” He came to lean against the edge of the desk, arms folding across his chest as he did when he was pondering something. You wondered for a moment if in the quietening hall he could hear the inappropriate reaction your heart was having to being almost alone – the final stragglers easing bags onto their shoulders. “I’d assumed you’d finished it already.” 

“I have.” 

He paused again. “Then what exactly are you asking me for?” 

It was a good question. You hadn’t come to today’s class with the expectation of doing anything but admiring paying attention, and praying you were not picked on to answer on some obscure equation. You had never been picked, and you feared your good luck streak was waning thin. His brow raised at your hesitation. 

“I want to make sure I understood it correctly.” 

“You finished your last exam twenty minutes early.” It was not your imagination that placed the smirk on his face, the edge of his lip shifting. 

“And? That doesn’t mean I understood it all,” you countered.

“You scored 98%” 

You tried not to look too pleased with yourself. “The missing two percent has been bothering me.” 

Your professor rarely laughed. Smiled, yes – when someone got something right. But laughing was reserved for much rarer occasions. You took his snicker as as good as you might get. 

“Most students would frame that grade,” he noted. 

“Most students didn’t lose marks only because they confused parasympathetic inhibition with reduced sinoatrial node automaticity.” 

His brow lifted slightly, “So you do know where you went wrong.” 

“I know where you said I went wrong,” you clarified. This earned you a sharper look, yet the smirk remained. The lecture hall had emptied entirely now, the fluorescent lights humming softly overhead. 

“You sound as if you disagree?” 

It didn’t take a year’s worth of classes with him to know that what you were entering was dangerous territory. 

“I think,” you said carefully as you stood, only now starting to slide your notes back into your bag, “that my answer was physiologically defensible.” 

He shifted more of his weight onto the desk behind him, a leg crossing over the other as his arms unfolded, hands coming to rest against the edge of the wood. Really, they did look far too pretty to belong to a teacher, of all people.

You paused over one textbook before flipping it open, turning to the annotated page. “You said I oversimplified the cardiac regulation under stress conditions.” Your finger traced the margin beside your handwriting. “But transient vagal withdrawal does precede sympathetic activation in acute tachycardic response.”

There was no denying, as you glanced up again, that his eyes followed your own, flicking back up to your face. You were suddenly very aware that standing had exposed your choice of shorts. For a second, there was only the buzz of the lights. 

“You’ve been reading beyond the course material,” he said eventually. You couldn’t decide if that impressed him or bothered him. He had an uncanny ability to make anyone second-guess anything. In fact, you were sure that he could make a person reconsider whether their name was actually what it was at the time of introduction, if in the right mood for it. “You realise,” he said, hand outstretched for what you assumed to be your textbook – you stepped down to hand it to him accordingly, “that most doctoral candidates wouldn’t challenge me this confidently.”

Heat climbed your throat despite yourself. “Maybe they should.” He paused halfway to unfolding his glasses, eyes holding your own. “I mean, in the interest of academic development, of course.” 

He hummed at that, resting the frames against his nose at last and glancing over your pages. It somehow felt all the more exposing when your work was not in essay format, not to mention being stood so close as he dissected it – for you were sure that that was what he was doing. Subjecting your ideas to his scalpel as he did so many others. 

A real smile threatened at the edge of his mouth before he suppressed it again. Nevertheless, the movement pulled your attention for half a second too long. 

“You’re still wrong, by the way,” he said calmly.

You exhaled a soft laugh. “I was wondering how long you’d let me think otherwise.”

“The autonomic response wasn’t the issue.” He closed the notebook, handing it back and letting it drop from his fingers. “Your mistake was assuming the heart behaves predictably under stress. Biology rarely respects clean models.”

The glasses were removed again, fingers folding over the arms as he tucked them away once more. “Come to my office tomorrow, does four pm work? I have a paper that would help with this, but right now I’m afraid I need to—”

“That works just fine.”

It was hardly a faculty secret that Professor Night was far from ordinary. Beyond being the youngest, the rhythmic ticking that followed him belied the truth that he was one of the most brilliant da Vinchis of the generation – those students lucky enough to study under him, to work more closely than the front rows, had all confirmed that the clockwork heart story was, in fact, true. And that the man, as young as he may be, was more prone to fits of irritation than the tenured lecturers he worked beside. Usually, it had been deduced, as a result of odd biological habits. If his several winter layers and now uncharacteristic summer fidgeting were anything to go by, an intolerance for thermoregulation appeared to be a symptom. 

“Tomorrow then?” 

“Tomorrow. Thank you, professor.” 

He only nodded. 

Professor Night’s office was at the farthest end of the corridor, the blind on the door always closed, adorned only with his brass ‘Dr. I Night, PhD’ name plaque and a neatly printed schedule relaying his permitted office hours. 

Friday, four pm, was not an allotted meeting time, you noted as you hovered, gathering the will to knock. Friday four pm was blocked out for independent research. Time that your professor was particularly protective of. 

It was well documented after all, that his second year lectures were part of his contract, and not a passion project. If he had it his way, he wouldn’t bother himself with students at all outside of his select doctoral cohort. 

“Are you going to continue hovering?” 

His voice broke through your thoughts, muffled through the door, but clear enough for you to realise he had likely been aware you had arrived five minutes early, and had stood resolutely since. 

You weren’t sure why you expected the door to creak as you pushed it open, but it didn’t, sliding open almost too quickly for you to assert in your balance again, your foot rushing to catch you before you ended up face down, arse up on his office floor. 

You cleared your throat awkwardly as he glanced up, pen paused over paper. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure I had the right time, your schedule—“ 

“You have the right time.” His smile returned. The one that dimpled his cheeks just enough to lean endearing without being over eager. “Early, but correct.” He stopped you before you could form your question: “I could see your shadow beneath the door. Come, sit.” 

The solitary chair beside his desk cleared itself of its own accord, your eyes widening at the feat. The stacks of books drifted purposefully to join a pile behind him, the tomes having long since overflown the allotted shelves. 

For all his precision inside the classroom, Professor Night’s personal office was in a state of disarray. Not the type that came from a lack of care, but rather a great deal of it, if the self-opening drawer and flicked through files were anything to go by. The stacks of paper and leather-bound books littered every corner, but in a form of organised chaos. Everything, it seemed, had a place. Just one that only he could understand. 

Most importantly, it was cosy. You could almost envision yourself working in here regularly. Perched at the edge of that desk as he mumbled to himself in his thoughts— 

“Are you going to sit?” 

“I— yes. Sorry, sir.”

He flicked through the file deposited on his desk, drawing out a thin wad of paper, and pressing it across to you. The file returned itself, his fingers alone orchestrating the movement, curved at the first knuckles and wafted so carelessly, the digits relaxing as the drawer closed itself again. 

What else could his ability do, you wondered. How much could they lift? Is it like a hand? A pressure? Used on a person, could it be felt beyond the tug in whichever direction he dictated? Could you fight against it? Would you want to?

“You shocked me yesterday.” His voice once again dragged you from your own mind. “You’re an intelligent girl, I struggle to see how you could find this difficult.” 

You shifted in your seat, legs crossing again. His attention faltered briefly, fingertips pausing against the edge of the paper.

“I just want the best grade I can get.” Your offer was thin at best. And he could tell. He hesitated, watching you for a moment longer. Then, without a word, his fingers twitched again, a pen drifting lazily into his grasp. Your already uneasy smile faltered, watching, entranced. 

“You seem distracted today, what’s wrong?” 

“Hm?” Your attention refocused. “Oh, nothing, I’m fine.” He only continued staring, brow poised in an obvious display of disbelief. 

“Do I make you nervous?” 

The question caught you off guard. So too did the soft smile that accompanied it as he sat back in his chair. It was odd, really, how untouchable he seemed at the front of a lecture hall, yet this close, he was far more boyish. Almost 10 years your senior, he was at once too old for your late-night thoughts to be rational, but still young enough for the whole thing to be entirely plausible. You realised you were staring again. 

“How did you become a professor so young?” 

His smile held despite your deflection. “Apparently, designing your own heart at 10 years old constitutes the start of your research. Combine 18 years of ‘experience’ with completing a doctorate in two years, and you’re able to frustrate several greying distinguished professors.” 

“Two years?” 

He hummed affirmatively yet dismissively, as if to wave the feat off. “Not the quickest, one is still the record, I believe, but yes. Two.” 

“Impressive.” You nearly kicked yourself.

“I am glad you think so.” The snicker returned, perhaps a little brighter than yesterday, more at ease under the comfort of a fan to cool him. It rustled his hair a little as it oscillated, catching against the whisps that escaped the gel around his temples, dislodged, you assumed, by his glasses. The same glasses nestled against his head, flicked down now to his nose. This close, the lenses made his eyes just a little bigger, the lines that graced the edges of them more noticeable, the deep brown that much more susceptible to being lost in. 

“Why teach? If you don’t like it, I mean?” 

“Do I not?” 

“I hardly think it’s a secret.” 

“Was it your intention to play 20 questions with me today? I thought I was sacrificing my research time to help you better understand the course content.” 

You were correct. You were here outside of his office hours – and on his invitation, too. 

“I never asked you to,” you mused. “I could consult directly with my academic advisor if I’m disturbing you.” 

He scoffed, leaning forward again to the paper. “And risk the ruination of my greatest student's mind? I don’t think so.” 

His assessment gave you pause. 

“Greatest?” You’d had approximately six one-on-one conversations with Dr. Night since you began his class last autumn. Each in seminars, and bookended by him jumping from one student to the next to place them under his proverbial microscope. While each were catalogued away in your own memory, you had hardly considered him to have held you to much esteem in his own. 

“Do you know how many other students came close to your 98%?” he asked, flicking through the paragraphs in front of him. You shook your head. “Sixteen. Do you know what the next highest percentage was?” 

“No.” 

“84%” 

You suddenly felt incredibly giddy. 

“Ah, here it is,” he glanced back at you at last, turning the paper he had dug out to face you, tapping specifically to a paragraph on the second page. “Does that make it clearer?” 

You nodded slowly, eyes moving over the annotated paragraph while trying not to notice how near his hand rested beside yours. “I think so.” Though in truth, your attention had begun splitting itself rather inconveniently between the paper and the low timbre of his voice.

“You argued from the perspective of mechanism,” he explained, “when the question required you to account for variability.”

For a moment, you only studied the paragraph in silence. “I hate that you’re making sense.”

That earned you a quiet huff of amusement. “I should hope so. It would be concerning otherwise.”

You glanced up to find him watching you over the rim of his glasses again, expression unreadable save for the faintest hint of satisfaction. “So I was close?”

“Oh, dangerously.” His reply came smoothly. “Another paragraph and you might have convinced me.”

Your pulse stuttered unnecessarily. 

He sat back again, sliding the paper closer to your edge of his desk. “Take it, it will be of more use to you at the moment.” 

You accepted the paper carefully, smoothing the edge between your fingers more to steady yourself than anything else, moving to gather it with your notebook. “Thank you.”

He had picked up his pen again, already turned back to whatever it was he was working on before you had interrupted, and you stood. 

Your name came from his lips before you could reach the door again, and you turned far more quickly than necessary. “I could… continue to tutor you, if you wish. Given that you’re going to continue to read beyond the curriculum regardless, I may as well help to focus your efforts more directly, and save you from ending up in some antiquated quagmire.” 

“I– yes, Sir, that would be–” 

“Isaac will do just fine.” 

A strange flutter passed through you at the intimacy of it, your fingers tightening uselessly around your book. “Yes, Isaac. I would enjoy that.”

“Good—” He cleared his throat abruptly, as though the word had escaped him too easily. “Very well.”

He rose then and crossed the small office to instead open the door for you, one arm braced against the frame as you stepped past him. The angle forced you to duck slightly beneath it, close enough to catch the scent of sandalwood and vetiver. You felt positively woozy. 

“Oh, and I think this is best kept between us, for now at least,” he added lightly. “Lest I be accused of favouritism.”

That is exactly what it is, you thought, though you merely nodded, offering what you hoped was a composed smile before turning away.

The extra sway in your step was entirely coincidental. 

Given what you knew of prof Isaac, you had assumed his offer for tutoring would cover the key submission seasons, perhaps a twice-termly interest in your extra-curricular reading and some general pointers in the direction of other journals. What you had not anticipated was that, despite no formal alteration of his schedule, one hour every Friday at four pm would be dedicated almost entirely to you. That you would, over the four meetings thus far, come to know that Dr. Isaac Night only listened to classical music (he favoured Baroque), drank his coffee black and far too late into the day to promise good sleep, and drove a black 1980s Mercedes that had a surprisingly comfortable passenger seat (he was hardly going to let you walk home in the heat, after all). 

What you had dismissed previously as mere admiration was very obviously more. It was hard to deny when your Friday nights were now spent alleviating yourself of the frustration that had built over the hour (often more) spent beside him, a hand pressed to your mouth, imagined to be his, to muffle your sighs for the sake of your housemates. How easy it would be for his hand to reach beyond the desk’s edge, you thought, to dip lower as his eyes so often did, and settle between your thighs, to curl against you as they did when he exercised his ability, to replace your touch with his—

Your name, sharpened with stern repetition, brought you back quickly to the lecture hall. It was already emptying, bags being slung onto shoulders, books gathered, feet slowly shuffling out. You blinked out of your daydream, cheeks warm. 

“Can I speak to you for a moment? It won’t take long.” 

Isaac watched you expectantly with his usually collected smile. It was oddly sterile now, you realised, knowing him as you did – it was almost unsettling. 

“Is everything okay?” your classmates continued to shuffle out around you. Isaac only held your most recent paper aloft. Your stomach dropped. 

“Fine, but I wanted to ask you about something.” A few people murmured to themselves as they passed, a cautious side-eye offered your way as you stood awkwardly and closed the gap to his desk. 

“Could this not have waited until—” 

His sharp warning glance shut you up. “It won’t take long,” he flicked through the pages quickly, settling on one practically stained red, his pen strokes heavily adorning your own. “I knew you wouldn’t mind my work beside yours.” 

Isaac simply turned the page towards you, barely stepping back as you leaned against the desk to study it more closely. Reviewing his notes was not unlike deciphering code, the entire cohort was in agreement on that, and even a month under his tutelage did nothing to familiarise you with his manner of working. 

“They would have been graded sooner had I not been so distracted,” he hummed. You caught him wiping his glasses on his tie from the corner of your eye. “You complicated matters further with this.” 

“What is this, exactly?” you frowned, focusing on the page again. For all his scrawl, none of the instantly recognisable red X’s signified his usual disappointment. “Is it wrong?”

“No, no. The answer is correct,” Isaac bent beside you, one hand braced against the desk. Almost too close. You wondered if he could feel the warmth of your body as you could his, the structure of his shoulder brushing your own. “It is the method that alludes me. Tell me, where did you learn how to do this?” 

Your tongue darted over your lips, glancing to the corner of your vision to where his face practically hovered beside your own, his focus fixed intently on your work, as if blissfully unaffected by the proximity that had you once again at the mercy of his cologne. This close, would it linger against the fabric of your shirt for the rest of the day? You hoped so.

“I didn’t.” Your voice wavered unintentionally. “I mean, it just felt the best way to go about it, no?” 

Isaac paused for a moment longer, but made no effort to move. His eyes flicked over the page again, though you were sure that neither of you were reading it anymore. The muscle in his jaw shifted once. “Hm.” 

“Hm?” Was that all you got?

“Hm.” You risked the turn of your head enough to catch the dart of his eyes over the page once, then twice, fixating at last on the roll of his tongue against his cheek, the protrusion of the dexterous muscle. “I always knew you were impressive, but to surprise me? Very few people can do that.” 

“Is it a nice surprise?” 

Your breath brushed his cheek, and Isaac jolted. Small, imperceptible if you had not been standing so close, and yet he made no effort to move. Rather, his gaze landed on your lips. 

“Very much so.” 

Your breath caught. Isaac’s eyes flicked to yours briefly, as though searching for hesitation, for some indication he should stop. Whatever he found there made something in his expression soften.

Rather, he leaned closer.

You could have stopped it. You knew you should. Instead, your fingers curled against the edge of the desk, his breath feathered warm against your lips.

You felt the hesitation in him then – restraint stretched to its breaking point. His eyes had fallen half-shut now, his composure stripped away piece by piece by fraying discipline.

The slam of the lecture hall door startled Isaac into motion so abruptly it bordered on undignified. He reeled back at once, your own lungs demanding air so viciously it nearly had you staggering. You fixed at once on the back of the hall, two boys lumbering in the back rows as if searching for something, one coming up with a textbook clearly forgotten after class. Neither of them was particularly concerned by what had almost transpired. 

The same could not be said for the man beside you.

Isaac was already gathering his things with urgency, shoving loose papers into his satchel with little regard for their neatness. You did not think you had ever seen him move so quickly; not even the students occupying the back rows escaped his lectures with such efficiency.

“I think it would be best,” he muttered, voice tight as he flipped the leather flap shut, “if we postponed tomorrow’s session. I’ll—” he stopped abruptly. “We’ll revisit this another time. Good work on the paper.”

“Professor, wait—”

Calling after him was useless. Within moments, he was already halfway up the lecture hall steps, taking them two at a time. You cursed his ridiculously long legs. 

The heavy door slammed shut behind him.

When Isaac had walked out that day, he disappeared. You’d tried his office on three separate occasions, including the end of Friday. As usual, the blind remained drawn, but this time the door was locked – and there was no rhythmic ticking beyond it to suggest he was merely bluffing his absence.

That was why seeing him the following Monday, leaning against the back wall of the science offices with a cigarette in hand, caught you so completely off guard. 

“I didn’t know you smoked.” 

He startled, nearly coughing on the lung full of smoke he had just inhaled. He huffed it out awkwardly. 

“I very rarely do.” he flicked the building ash away, intent on watching it as it fell beside his shoes. “I find it helps with stress.” 

“Work?” 

“Something like that.” 

His voice was distracted, his attention fixed firmly on the cigarette between his fingers. He rolled it slowly, the movement pulling taut the tendons along the back of his hand.

“Your research?”

Your attempt to narrow it down earned only a scoff – light enough to almost pass for a laugh. 

“You.”

“Me?” 

He exhaled slowly again. “You’re a smart girl, don’t pretend otherwise.” It was almost condescending, laced with irritation as he brought the cigarette to his lips. 

You fumbled for words. It wasn’t hard to bring the memory of the other day to the front of your mind. You had been replaying it almost every hour for the last five days, trying to shake the ache in the pit of your stomach – to see it in a new light, one that didn’t mourn the fact you were so close to knowing what his lips felt like against your own. 

“Professor, I—“

“Do you think I don’t see it? Hm?” He glanced around then, pausing as a small gaggle of students filed past, his voice lowering. “The way you look at me? All the way through class. It’s enough to drive any man mad, and the other day—” he found himself unable to finish the thought, settling for another harsh drag instead.  

You swallowed hard against the tension in your throat. “Do you think it’s a problem?”

“I know it is a problem. Need I remind you I am your teacher.” 

“You’re the youngest on campus.”

“That does not make it better.” 

“I would argue that it is considerably more tolerable than if it were me and, say, Professor Richardson. Physiologically speaking.” 

Isaac visibly cringed at the thought of his nearing-70-year-old colleague, tossing the butt of his cigarette to the ground and grinding it beneath the toe of his shiny Oxford shoe. “Please do not make me picture that.” 

“It proves my point.” 

“It proves nothing,” he stressed. “I am your tutor, and I shouldn’t have allowed myself to see you so often, not one-on-one.” 

“So, you’re ending the tutoring?” 

“I didn’t say that.” His answer came too quickly, a stern glance offered from beneath his brows at the mere suggestion. It was a strange thing to watch his reason fight his appetite. You didn’t get where he was so quickly without constantly pursuing what you craved, after all, and now he seemed to be at odds with his habits for what might have been the first time.

That almost made you laugh. There was something deeply unfair about the severity with which he approached everything, including this. Especially this.

“You know,” you mused, “most men would simply admit they’re attracted to someone and spare themselves the philosophical crisis.” 

“This is not a game.” His expression darkened at once. “This cannot continue indefinitely.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“Then, we seem to be at an impasse.” 

He barely reacted, his eyes not once leaving your own. 

“I can give you one last session,” he offered. You knew that tone. It was the one he used in seminars, relenting to a student begging for an extension on a submission. He was bargaining. But this time, you could hardly tell if it was with you or himself. 

“I want to show you something,” he continued, each word chosen too carefully. “But beyond that, we need to… reassess the arrangement.” 

It was as if he was trying to sound certain, cover himself with his professionalism. It was easy enough to see through the fact his fingers fidgeted in his pocket, twitchy without the comfort of his cigarette.

“In your office?” 

It would have been a disservice to yourself to pretend your stomach didn’t knot at the thought of it. That something inside you hadn’t already gone taut with anticipation. That the same heat didn’t bloom across your chest, multiplied ten fold from your first meeting. 

You knew he felt it too. It only made it worse. 

“I– Are you busy right now?” 

“Not with anything important.” 

His throat bobbed with the effort of swallowing, and his keys were fished from his pocket. “They’re at my apartment.” 

You almost laughed. “You think that’s smart?” 

“I know it isn’t.” For a second, he stayed there against the wall like he was still arguing with himself, jaw tight enough to ache. Without much other warning he set off walking with an intention that suggested you should follow. “But I’m sure we can be professional about it.” 

Isaac’s apartment was a little way off campus, away from the more student-esque districts. It was nice, suggestive of the nice wage the university must have offered him to keep him in their employ, and not have him dart off to the competition. 

He had stepped back upon opening the door for you, as silent as he had been on the drive over, letting you step beyond the threshold of what appeared initially to be an extension of his campus office. A similar pattern of chaos permeated each corner, this time, however, mixed with a series of chotskies you were sure were of his own design. You wondered if he at all knew how to switch off. 

“Did you make all of these?” Your bag dropped neatly to the floor beside his sofa, a cosy-looking thing, worn but not to the point of ragged. 

“Yes.” He sat back against the cushions, having locked the front door again and kicked off his shoes. You stood for a moment longer, turning slowly as if in some grand museum, when it caught your eye. A picture frame, a young girl, beaming happily from the mantlepiece beside yet another metal contraption. 

“She’s pretty,” you mused, stepping closer. Isaac knew what you were testing here, smart as he was, glancing up just barely from flicking though some large papers on his coffee table. 

“She’s my sister,” he confirmed. “Françoise.” 

You turned at that, an odd satisfaction settling in the pit of your stomach. He went quickly back to hunting for what he wanted, lips pressed together firmly the longer it took to find.

You paced slowly, attention darting between each of the small contraptions, set up in strange ways that you could hardly understand. 

“What does this one do?”

You stopped beside a particularly intricate mechanism, slightly larger than the others and positioned alone on a side table. Interlocking brass gears turned at uneven intervals beneath a lattice of thin steel rods, each movement feeding into the next with precise, deliberate clicks.

You reached forward innocently enough, a finger aiming to brush along the twisted metal, guided purely by curiosity.

That was when you felt it – the firm wrap of a hand around your wrist, stopping you entirely, holding you still without any obvious physical effort. Your eyes widened, breath catching at the steady pressure around your forearm.

Isaac’s hand was barely outstretched, still sat across the room, his gaze firm and unimpressed.

“Can you behave for a moment, please?”

Your mouth dried, a tragic idea forming. He had, after all, hidden from you for several days, avoided you like some child on a playground. If he wanted to be immature, why couldn’t you be. Your lips curled to disguise your shock.  “And if I don't?” 

Something darkened in his expression, the lines between his brows lingering but shifting, his tongue rolling over his lip slowly, preparing the answer. “Don’t push it.”

The pressure dissipated quickly, the sensation odd – there had been no warmth of skin to retract, simply the presence – some ghostly palm releasing you back to yourself. 

“I intended to bring these on Friday,” he muttered, already having gone back to his search, shuffling over a seat to work through another pile. “But, well…” 

“What are they exactly?” 

His hands stalled for only a fraction of a second before continuing. “The plans for my heart. I thought they might help with your final project.”

Something in your own chest tightened at the casualness of it.

“I’m sure they were here.” He exhaled quietly through his nose, shuffling another pile aside.

“You could just show me,” you said. “Your heart, I mean. If you can’t find the plans…”

That finally drew a reaction. His fingers slowed against the papers, then stopped altogether. The room suddenly felt much smaller. 

Isaac glanced at you, expression unreadable, though the tension in his jaw gave something away. “I don’t think that quite sticks to the promise of professionalism,” he muttered. Even so, he didn’t resume searching.

You only shrugged. “It saves me coming all this way for nothing.” 

His hesitation lasted for all of about two seconds before he reached for his tie, loosening the fabric incrementally until it hung loose from his collar.

“Fine.”

The word came quieter than you expected. He leaned forward to undo the first button of his shirt, then the next. The cushions shifted beneath him as he moved closer to the edge of the sofa.

“Come here, then.”

For a moment, you didn’t move. You could only watch the slow parting of fabric beneath his fingers, the glimpse of pale skin and the faint metallic framework set into the centre of his chest. Brass caught the low light in narrow flashes between the open edges of his shirt, mechanisms moving with soft, precise clicks beneath the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

You hadn’t realised you were staring until he glanced up at you. The look in his eyes snapped you out of it enough to finally cross the room.

Carefully, almost cautiously, you lowered yourself to kneel between his legs. The position alone sent heat rushing to your face, made worse by the way his knees shifted slightly apart to make room for you. Isaac inhaled sharply.

Your fingers hovered uncertainly before finally reaching forward. His actual hand curtailed your reach this time, his fingers wrapped tangibly around your wrist without squeezing. A warning, unlike the last, more to slow you than deter you entirely. He moved with you as you pressed forward, his lax grip steering you to the scarred skin beside the mechanism, free from the cage itself. It trailed from there, guided still by his palm, a tour guide as such, each component's name was announced at each small stop, low and soft beside your ear.

“It’s incredible.” Your voice was little more than a whisper as you allowed yourself to lean closer, weight shifting further onto your knees. You were too transfixed to recognise that your hand had found his thigh for balance, nor his shaky intake of breath. “You really designed this when you were just a child?” 

Isaac offered a quiet affirmative. You glanced up, too enraptured to have realised how close you had really become again. Neither of you moved. 

“Does it hurt?” 

“Not most of the time.” 

“Does it always tick this quickly?” 

“When you are around, yes.” 

You swallowed hard, heat rising at the overwhelming warmth that spread across your cheeks and prickled down your spine, exacerbated by the warmth of him beside you. Your fingers tightened against his thigh; his breath stuttered. 

“I should stop, shouldn’t I?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you want me to?” 

“No.” 

The kiss landed wrong at first. Too fast. Your mouths collided clumsily, breath catching, his hand finding your cheeks with enough force to pull a startled sound from you. It was nothing like the composed precision he carried through the rest of his life. You could feel every fractured second of restraint fighting against instinct beneath it. He pulled back first, but only just enough to breathe.

This close, he looked almost angry about it.

“That,” he said quietly, voice roughened beyond recognition, “was a mistake.”

You could still feel his mouth against yours.

“Probably,” you whispered.

Your hand on his thigh drifted upwards as he leaned down to catch your lips again, tongue rolling over your own with an ease that betrayed his experience, finding where he stiffened, palming over the steadily straining fabric. His breath stuttered, rasping as you descended, trailing your mouth down the column of his throat. 

“W-we absolutely shouldn’t do this.” 

The button of his slacks popped open with the slightest effort, the zipper following suit. For all his eagerness to stop you earlier, there was little sign of the hum of his ability now, not as his hips lifted enough for you to pull the fabric free, to loose him, his flushed tip hitting his stomach. 

His weak protests trailed off into something unintelligible, soft whines taking their place at the wrap of your fingers around him, enveloping the base, catching in the mess of curls. His jaw clenched as you glance up, doe-eyed from beneath your lashes with the steady twist of your grip. 

“Fuck—” 

You gave into your own urges before considering his, you were so tired of navigating the whole thing on his terms, you thought, as you brought your mouth to him at last, the soft stroke of your tongue catching the heat of him, lapping sweetly at the mess he was making of himself, saline and sticky.  

The soft mewl was almost unbecoming of the man who usually commanded your classroom, his stomach tightening with each twitch in your palm. His eyes never once left yours, hooded, pupils blown so wide they were nearly entirely black. They followed the path of your tongue as it circled him, lapping softly at his slit, lips barely closing around him, suckling sweetly until he jerked against the roof of your mouth, pressing himself deeper, groaning at your startled hum around him until he met the back of your throat, the heaviness of him against your tongue halting your breath. 

He dragged you off as you hiccuped, nails digging crescents into the skin of his thigh, water brimming on your lashes. For a moment neither of you could properly breathe, your gentle grip still smoothing over the spit-slick skin. 

“Do you want me to stop, Prof—” 

“Don’t say that.” 

You only smiled, your cheek leaning to press against his thigh, a slow smile curling, emboldened by his steady undoing beneath your palm. “Would you rather I moaned it?” 

“Stop it.” 

“Professor—“ 

Something in him broke, his grip on your hair dipping until it grasped the base of your neck, tugging you back into him with little care for the fact the he could taste himself on your tongue. 

He kissed like a man possessed. Something besides his hands demanding you up towards him, settling you in his lap without effort, securing you against his chest with a near bruising grip. It was all too easy to give in, the startled huff of his name forced from your lungs as he pressed you into the couch beside him, barely allowing himself the distance required to tug at your clothes, stripping them unceremoniously.

There was nothing measured left in him now, not as his lips found your throat, teeth nipping at the skin not entirely intentionally. 

“Please tell me you have done this before?” It was rasped, punctuated by the drag of his lips across the juncture of your throat. 

“Yes.” 

“Thank God.” 

He spared no time working his hand between you, lithe fingers brushing the soaking wet folds, fumbling to find the ridges of your clit, savouring the harsh gasps as he dipped lower, pressing and curling against you for nothing besides satisfying his own desperation. 

“I’ve wanted to ruin you from the day you walked into my classroom—” each laboured word of confession came punctuated with the precise scissor of his fingers, “—So smart, so good. Fuck, made such a mess of myself all because of you.” 

You could do little more than whine, the broken syllables of his name barely discernable through the stuttered, hiccuping sighs, dragged from you with each pull against your walls. 

He pulled from you suddenly, hardly giving you enough time to lodge complaint before he pressed forward, filling you slowly – far slower than you imagined he desired to – inch by devastating inch, until his thighs pressed flush against your own. 

He sat back only enough to study you, his hair a mess, hanging limp in gel-cripsed ringlets by his temples as his thumbs spread your cunt for his observation. “That’s it, oh, good girl.” 

There was no control in the way he gave into your warmth, the fluttering squeeze around him driving him to the point of near madness as he pressed deeper still, barely giving himself the chance to withdraw with each roll of his hips. 

“Always knew you’d be so good for me.” His hands found yours, the white-kuckle grip alleviating from your hips in favour of pinning you to his sofa, the throw pillows crushed or tumbled to the floor in his haste, caging your hands in one of his so easily. “The– perfect– student—”

His reminder had you clenching around him, barely registering against the surge of him, the hand not dominating your own slipping between you again to find your clit, unrelenting as he played you so flippantly. 

His lips finding yours quietened you, swallowing the keening moans forced from your chest, drawn out by months of built-up frustration, inhibitions dissolving as he moved with bullying intent. 

“Gonna–” 

It was all you could manage, your fluttering cunt milking him, the gush of your slick making a mess of the fabric below you, body trembling and hips bucking away at the over stimulation as he fucked you through it, half-formed praises dripping from his lips. 

He came undone with a sob, spilling into you recklessly, the grip on your hands loosened, his fingers searching for anything to cling onto as he dropped forward, head pressed into the plush of your chest as he gasped, the keening rasp shaking with the effort as he collapsed, the rigidity of his body softening against yours, save for the cool metal in his chest. 

It somehow felt more strange for your fingers to settle in his hair, brushing the strands from his forehead, combing them back slowly so as not to tug. 

It took him a moment to collect himself before he drew back, hissing at the overstimulation. 

“Oh, shit,” his dispair came halfway between concern and exhilaration, eyes fixing on the slow seep of him from your cunt. “Are you–” 

“I’ll get a pill.” 

You moved to push yourself to sit, only for his hand to land against your shoulder. “Wait here.” 

He disappeared for a moment, reappearing with a washcloth, dampened and warm, pressing it diligently between your thighs. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t even think—”

“It’s okay, honestly.” The quiet that came between you was neither comfortable or awkward, an odd tension settling.“I don’t regret it,” you offered softly, watching the tension in his expression loosen by degrees.

“That doesn’t mean it should have happened.” 

“Do you regret it?” you pressed. His lips twitched faintly, humourless and tired all at once.

“No,” he admitted. “That’s the problem.”

The honesty of it settled warm beneath your ribs. “So,” you said carefully, unable to suppress the hope creeping into your voice, “you maybe want to see me again?”

“I will see you next Friday for your usual session,” he replied at once, the formality of it almost comical considering the state of both of you. Still, disappointment sat heavily against your diaphragm. You tried to hide it, but his eyes flicking across your face told you that you had failed. 

“Then,” he continued, quieter now as he bent to retrieve his shirt from the floor, shaking it out once before holding it toward you. The fabric still carried his warmth. He let it fall deliberately into your hands, fingers brushing yours for the briefest second. “So long as you graduate top of your class,” he said, gaze steady on yours, “I will see you again.”

You stared at him. It was impossible not to grin.

His expression shifted immediately in response, something dangerously fond threatening the corners of his mouth before he suppressed it again.

“You realise,” you said, pulling his shirt over yourself, “this is a wildly unethical motivational strategy?”

“And yet,” he replied smoothly, eyes dragging over you once before returning to your face, “I suspect it will be extremely effective.”