Page 43 of Office Hours
He shakes his dark head, blue eyes glinting.
“Nope. But no, I haven’t been celibate either. That would be—” He winces, shakes his head. “Let’s just say it’s been a long time since I had anything somewhat serious. The rest was just passing time.”
I nod, tracing the rim of my glass with my finger. “So, what, you’ve just been seeing an AI chatbot for a girlfriend? Or are you on, like, secret professor Tinder?”
He nearly laughs. “Jesus, no. My department would run a background check if I even tried to sign up for one of those. Most of the time, I’m just here. Books and meetings and maybe the gym if I’m feeling alive.”
I tilt my head, waiting for more.
“There was someone,” he says, voice going soft. “Last year. It didn’t work. We had nothing in common.” He looks at me, dead in the eyes. “I think I was just trying to prove I could still feel something.”
I’m not sure what to do with my hands, so I fold them in my lap. “Was it Claire?”
He gives a tiny nod, but there’s no drama in it. “Yes. She’s very different from you.” He pauses. “From me, too.”
I roll the stem of my glass between two fingers. “You want to talk about it?”
He shrugs, which is apparently his default setting. “There’s not much to say. Claire’s smart, driven, good at what she does. But we were just missing that spark.” He glances up. “The kind of spark that gets you called into the Dean’s office if you’re not careful.”
I want to laugh, but the mood is heavier now. He looks, for a second, like he might actually apologize for the way things started between us.
Instead, he says, “I’m not good at this, Simone. I want to be. I just don’t want to screw up again.”
He reaches for his glass, and our fingers brush. The contact is so brief, so accidental, but it feels like a spark plug arcing across skin.
“I’m not either,” I say. “But I want to try. With you.”
We eat more. The conversation wanders, then doubles back on itself. I tell him about Andie’s failed attempt at baking gluten-free brownies (the batter exploded in the microwave), and he tells me about his old roommate, who once took a full pepperoni pizza into the shower “for science.” We trade stories, not because we have to, but because it’s actually fun.
Between bites, our eyes keep meeting. Sometimes we look away at the same time and pretend it’s not a game.
After a while, he leans back and runs a hand through his hair, which is the most relaxed I’ve ever seen him. “You’re nothing like I imagined,” he says, the words almost a whisper.
I decide to risk it. “What did you imagine?”
He holds my gaze. “I didn’t think I’d ever care this much again.”
The words are a fire alarm in my chest, but I try to play it off. “That sounds dangerous.”
“It is.” He smiles, finally, and the room goes a degree brighter.
We finish the salad and what’s left of the wine. The candles are burning low, and there’s nowhere to hide from the gravity pulling us together.
He stands, collects the dishes, and when he comes around the table, he offers me his hand. I take it, pulse jittery. He pulls me to my feet, and we stand there for a second, facing each other.
“I don’t want to ruin this,” he says, voice low. “But if I don’t kiss you right now, I might actually die.”
I laugh, and he does too, and then we’re kissing, slow and hot and full of the promise of all the things we haven’t said yet. His arms go around my waist, and I’m melting, melting, melting.
For a second, the whole world is just breath and skin and need.
When we break apart, he brushes a thumb across my cheek. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, and I don’t even try to answer, because it would just sound like static in my ears.
The music is still playing, the candles still burning, but the real story is in the way his hands hold me. Gentle at first, then with more need. My body already knows what’s coming, and I want it, bad.
But I don’t want to rush it. Not this time.
We stand there, arms around each other, as if the rest of the night could wait forever.
