Then he shifts slightly, grimacing.
“I should…” He glances down at himself, then back at me with a rueful expression. “Clean up.”
“Oh. Right. Of course.”
He stands carefully, and I try very hard not to stare at the obvious wet spot darkening his jeans. I fail. He notices.
“You are staring,” he says, not unkindly.
“Sorry,” I say, not sorry at all.
His mouth curves. “I am not complaining.”
He disappears into the tiny bathroom. I hear water running. When he returns a minute later, he’s cleaned up as best he can, though the damp patch on his jeans is still visible.
He catches me looking again.
“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
“You look…” He searches for the word. “Relaxed. Not completely. But more than before.”
I check in with my body. He’s right.
The buzzing is still there—my nervous system doesn’t do quick resets—but it’s quieter. Grounded in warmth instead of panic. In him instead of them.
“Come back,” he says, patting the bed beside him. “No more trying to climb me like tree. For now.”
“For now,” I echo, heart doing a ridiculous little flip.
I crawl back onto the bed and lie down on my side, facing him. He stretches out too, leaving just enough space that I have to bridge it if I want more contact.
I do.
I scoot closer, tucking myself against his bare chest, one leg thrown over his like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He exhales slowly, arm wrapping around my waist, hand splaying low on my back. His skin is warm against mine.
“This okay?” he asks.
“It’s perfect,” I say, and mean it. My mouth curves before I even realize it, a real smile, unguarded and warm, pulled from me like a tide he doesn’t even try to command.
For a while, we just breathe together.
My brain, ever the analyst, tries to catalog this: the steady rise and fall of his chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat under my ear, the way his fingers draw small, absent-minded patterns on the small of my back.
None of it feels like distraction.
It feels like anchoring.
“When this is over,” I say eventually, voice drowsy but clear, “when the ethics complaint is filed and I’ve told the dean I’m not backing down and I’ve either destroyed my career or saved it…”
He hums, a low sound of acknowledgment.
“…after that,” I continue, “I want you to take me apart on this bed.”
His body goes very, very still.
“Is that so?” he asks, voice suddenly rough again.
