I have spent years maintaining order in this office, the oak desk a fortress against the abandonment that still echoes from my parents' death. I speak with strict measure to hide the fear, but Gemma Quincey slipped past every defense with her eager responses, and now the line between professor and researcher has blurred beyond repair.

She bends across that desk at my quiet instruction, and the belt comes off my waist more often than either of us will admit. The crescent scar on her skin has learned my hand. Every session ends further past the line than the one before it.

Discovery would cost us both our positions and her estate, yet turning away from what she offers feels like the greater loss.