“Cute,” I say, smiling. “No—I mean you. Just me and you.”
“Is this about the gender roles paper? Because the assignment?—”
“I’m not struggling with the paper.” I lean against the desk. “I’m talking about a real date.”
That gets her attention. She stills. Straightens. “We’ve been over this a dozen times.”
I ignore her tone and answer, pushing forward. “Dinner,” I say. “A movie, perhaps a walk by the river. I’m flexible.”
Her gaze flicks toward the door; two girls are still packing up, chatting. No one’s paying attention. She lowers her voice. “How many times do you need to be turned down before you get it? You are a student. I’m the TA. It’s not happening.”
She’s the same woman who just gave a lecture about how gender’s all made-up rules, how people just act the way they’retold, and now she’s hiding behind her TA badge like it’s a damn shield. I meet her eyes.
“Yeah,” I mutter, “that’s kinda funny, huh?”
Her brow lifts. “What is?”
“That you talk about breaking expectations, but the second it gets real, you play by them.”
Her mouth tightens. “Watch it.”
Yeah. Not happening.
“We’re not kids,” I tell her. “I’m not seventeen. I’m not your advisee in high school chem. I’m a grown man who happens to be enrolled in a class you assist in.”
“Exactly,” she snaps. “That’s why this conversation is inappropriate.”
“Only if someone decides it is.”
“That’s literally how norms work,” she says, voice sharp. “We just talked about?—”
“Yeah, I know,” I interrupt. “Gender boxes, social rules, who’s allowed to step out of line without getting crucified. I heard every word.”
I let that sit between us; not a threat, just proof I was paying attention and that I’m not the idiot she wants me to be.
Her eyes narrow, reading the shift in me. This isn’t playful Talon. This is the one who’s tired of being told he’s a kid.
“You done?” she asks.
“Not really,” I admit. “But I’m trying to respect your time.”
Her lips twitch in something that isn’t a smile. She starts packing faster, sliding her notebook into her bag, slipping her laptop into its sleeve.
I watch her hands move. Think about the coffee shop. About her laugh when I said I wouldn’t touch another guy’s cock. About her eyes lighting up when she talked about how the heart can want more than one.
“You want to keep your secret,” I say quietly. “I get it.”
Her shoulders tense.
“I don’t have a secret,” she says quick and sharp.
I almost laugh. “Okay.”
She glares.
I drag a hand over my jaw, debating just how far I want to push this. I don’t want to hurt her. The idea sits in my chest like a stone. But I want her to stop acting like I’m a child poking at her ankles when I’ve already seen more than she wants to believe.
“I know you’re not the sweet, shiny TA half this room thinks you are,” I say. “I know you spend your nights in places they don’t put on the tour pamphlets. I know you don’t believe in monogamy, and you’re already seeing more than one guy.”
