Office Hours Are Over

Dr. Ivy Blake’s POV

The worst part about being faculty wasn’t the tenure meetings, the endless grant proposals, or even the undergrads who thought “Dr.” was optional when addressing me.

It was the damn paper cuts.

I hissed under my breath as a thin line of red bloomed across my thumb. I shoved the offending file back into the cabinet with more force than necessary, mentally cursing the antiquated storage system my department insisted on keeping. Digital files were cleaner. Safer. Less… bloody.

And yet, here I was, after 9 p.m. on a Wednesday, bleeding onto tenure-track hell.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The office hallway was deserted—just as I liked it. No one to interrupt my rhythm. No colleagues looking to gossip. No students begging for extensions they didn’t deserve.

Just quiet. Order. Control.

Until it wasn’t.

The sound of footsteps broke the silence. Confident. Smooth. Like whoever it was didn’t know—or didn’t care—that they were trespassing on my sacred after-hours solitude.

I turned, heart already preparing to lecture.

And then he walked in.

Julian.

My new graduate assistant.

God help me.

He wasn’t just handsome. That would’ve been manageable. Handsome was common in LA. No, Julian was dangerously handsome. All tousled curls, smirking lips, and that annoyingly smug confidence that came with being too smart, too young, and too damn aware of both.

He held up a manila folder like an offering. “Thought you might need these before tomorrow’s seminar.”

“Julian,” I said, my voice sharp. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged, sauntering in like he owned the place. Like he belonged there after hours with me. “Just being an overachiever. Figured I’d save you a trip to the archives in the morning.”

I should have thanked him. Should’ve taken the file, dismissed him, and gone back to bleeding into my workload.

But the air between us shifted the moment the door clicked shut behind him.

“You shouldn’t be here this late,” I said, eyes narrowing. “It’s inappropriate.”

His smile curved slowly. Sinfully. “You’re here.”

“I work here. You’re a student.”

“Graduate student,” he corrected. “Not exactly a freshman lost on the wrong floor.”

My spine straightened. “Still—there are boundaries.”

“Of course.” He placed the file on my desk, fingers brushing the edge with deliberate ease.

“Just doing my job.”

I moved to stand behind my desk, my armor of professionalism already slipping back into place. “Well, you’ve done it. Thank you. You can go now.”

He didn’t move.

Instead, his eyes flicked down to my blouse. Ivory silk, buttoned high. Professional.

Polished. Safe.

Too bad the way he looked at me made it feel like I was wearing something far more revealing.

“Julian.”

He tilted his head, eyes dark with something unreadable. “Would it be against the rules,” he said, voice low, “if I said I’ve been thinking about you all week?”

My breath caught.

For a second, just one wild, foolish second, I didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Then, I stepped back like his words had burned me. Because they had.

“This conversation is over,” I snapped.

But Julian?

Julian just smiled like he’d already won something.

And damn it… a traitorous part of me wondered if he had.

I turned my back on him.

It was the only defense I had at the moment. My face ran too hot, my breath too shallow, and my thoughts—well, they’d abandoned professionalism about ten seconds after Julian had opened his mouth.

I gripped the edge of my desk like it might anchor me. “You’re walking a fine line, Julian.”

Behind me, the soft shuffle of his steps came closer. Not threatening. Not hurried. Just confident. Deliberate.

I hated how aware I was of it. Of him.

“Then tell me where the line is,” he said, voice warm and maddeningly close. “So I don’t accidentally cross it.”

My eyes fluttered closed. This was dangerous territory—worse than fraternizing. It was temptation in a tailored blazer and expensive cologne. One that smelled like bergamot, cedarwood, and regret waiting to happen.

“You’re my assistant,” I said tightly. “I’m your supervisor. This is not a conversation we should be having.”

“Maybe not,” he murmured, and God—was he closer? “But you’re still not telling me I’m wrong.”

That earned me a sharp turn and glare.

“Wrong about what?”

He didn’t flinch. Just smiled. “That you’ve been thinking about me, too.”

My spine straightened. “That’s enough.”

Julian held up both hands in mock surrender, but the glint in his eyes said he wasn’t nearly done. “Okay. Message received.” A pause. “For now.”

He moved toward the door, finally.

But just before he opened it, he glanced back over his shoulder. “You’re really going to pretend you don’t feel this?”

I didn’t answer.

Because I didn’t trust myself to lie convincingly—and I would have to lie.

He was my student.

Even if he was older than most of my undergrads.

Even if he walked into a room like he owned it, and looked at me like I was the only thing he wanted in it.

Even if my body was currently betraying me in about a dozen humiliating ways.

“I’m not pretending,” I said finally. “I’m ignoring. There’s a difference.”

That made his grin widen, a flash of satisfaction in his eyes.

He opened the door.

Then paused.

“See you tomorrow, Dr. Blake.”

I watched the door click shut behind him, my pulse still hammering.

I handled it. Shut it down. Maintained control.

Except for one thing:

I couldn’t stop thinking about his question.

And worse—I couldn’t stop imagining all the ways I wanted to break the rules anyway. I turned my back on him.

I didn’t leave my office for a full twenty minutes after Julian left.

Not because I had work to do, though I told myself I did. Not because I was waiting for the air to clear, though the scent of him still clung to my office like a whispered dare.

No, I waited because my legs were still trembling. And I needed time to convince myself that nothing had just happened.

Except… something had.

He’d walked in with a question that unraveled me.

And the worst part?

I liked it.

I liked the heat in his gaze. The confidence in his voice. The way he looked at me like he knew—not suspected, but knew—that if I let go of the rules, just for a moment, I’d fall hard and fast.

And I hated that he might be right.

I shoved my laptop into my bag, not bothering to organize the files on my desk. My fingers were too twitchy, my thoughts too disorganized. I locked my office with more force than necessary, heels clicking down the empty hallway as if my pace could outwalk the guilt curling in my stomach.

Or maybe it wasn’t guilt.

Maybe it was want.

Want was worse.

I reached the parking lot and slid into my car, my mind still flashing with the memory of Julian’s voice.

“Would it be against the rules if I said I’ve been thinking about you all week?”

God, I needed a drink. Or a cold shower. Or both.

Instead, I gripped the steering wheel and whispered the only words I could trust right now.

“Control the narrative, Blake. Don’t let the narrative control you.”

It was my mantra, both in my research and my life. If I kept the story tidy, professional, appropriate, buttoned-up, I could survive anything.

But Julian?

Julian had a plot twist written all over him.

And worse, part of me… the part that hadn’t seen action since my last heartbreak two years ago… wanted to read every page of that trouble.

Out loud.

In my office.

After hours.

I groaned and dropped my forehead to the steering wheel. “This is so, so bad.”

But somewhere, beneath the professional panic and academic guilt, another voice whispered back:

Or it might just be exactly what you need.