In all of Marcus's years of teaching, there was nothing he hated more than office hours.

It wasn't even for the expected reason.

He didn't exactly dislike the students.

It was more of a neutral relationship.

Otherwise, there would've been no point in becoming a chemistry teacher.

The students were exhausting, though.

Most of them didn't even bother to show up, nor did they care enough to.

And even if they did, it was mainly for assignment extensions that were due over a week ago, or Marcus's least favorite quarrel—arguing over points they didn't deserve.

Ultimately, the thing he hated most was waiting.

To him, there was something almost impressive about students who were failing chemistry and still needed time to consider whether asking for help was worth missing a party.

Today, though, out of all days, he welcomed the quiet.

Because after a day of teaching at this school, it felt like peace.

It really was getting late.

The chemistry section of Hartwell—which was practically its own building—was nearly empty.

Light rain drizzled against the tall windows overlooking the courtyard. The dim desk lamp cast a soft golden glow across the stacks of research papers covering Marcus's desk.

He carefully loosened the sleeves of his dark green button-up and leaned back in his chair, exhaling softly.

Today had been another long day, as expected.

He suspected that was the norm at a school like Hartwell. There had been so many department meetings that he hadn't even had time to eat lunch.

Not that he had anything to look forward to.

A bowl of instant noodles and a muffin. Both store-bought.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a home-cooked meal.

Continuing his depressing day, he also had another grant revision waiting to be submitted.

By far the most inconvenient thing today, though, had been the first lecture.

Mainly because one deeply obnoxious student had been occupying every inch of his thoughts.

Marcus didn't appreciate that.

He sighed and reached for his cup of coffee just as a loud knock sounded against the half-open door.

His attention shifted upward out of habit—and he regretted it on the spot.

Damian Cross was currently leaning against the doorway like the physical embodiment of a threat to Marcus's blood pressure.

Of course.

Apparently haunting Marcus's existence had become a hobby.

What were the odds that the moment Marcus was deciding how much he hated him, he appeared at that exact moment?

The universe truly hated him.

Marcus's eyes narrowed slightly at the man. Though instead of looking professional, he probably looked like he was checking Damian out.

Especially after noticing a few things about him.

The dark coat layered over a black sweater.

His dark blond hair, slightly damp from the rain.

And finally, those sharp green eyes watching Marcus far too closely.

Marcus, using years of experience and self-control, kept his expression neutral.

"Mr. Cross."

Damian's mouth curved slightly in what might've been amusement.

"Dr. Monroe."

Other than the expression itself, there was something about the way Damian spoke his title that sounded either mocking or flirtatious.

Marcus decided he would not examine that thought and immediately shoved it away.

"If you're here about missing assignments," Marcus said calmly, turning back toward his laptop, "the syllabus already explains my policies."

Damian ignored that entirely and stepped into the office anyway.

"Actually, I'm here because you graded unfairly."

Marcus sighed internally.

Of course he came here about grading.

Marcus had never graded unfairly in his life, nor had he ever deducted points just because someone misspelled a word.

He would never do such a thing.

He gestured vaguely toward the plush chair across from his desk.

"Sit."

Damian obeyed and lounged in the chair with the confidence of a man sprawled across his house couch.

No manners whatsoever.

Marcus hated how much presence the man had.

He was sitting down, yet somehow it still felt like he occupied the entire room.

Marcus, his patience thinning, pulled up the digital grading portal before he could think something even more unprofessional.

"Which question?"

"The equilibrium problem."

Marcus's eyes lazily scanned the screen. If he didn't stop himself, he might've actually smiled.

"I deducted points because your explanation lacked supporting calculations."

Damian tilted his head slightly.

"But my answer was correct."

The longer the conversation continued, the more insufferable Damian became.

"Correct answers without demonstrated understanding are considered useless."

Damian disregarded that and focused on one thing instead.

"You understood it."

Marcus lifted his gaze from the screen.

Damian was watching him with an expression caught somewhere between amusement and challenge.

That somehow aggravated Marcus even more.

"That isn't how grading works."

"I think you wanted an excuse to lower my grade."

Excuse me?

What the fuck was he talking about?

That absolute asshole. As if Marcus cared enough to do that.

Ha.

"Why would I care enough to do that?"

Marcus was almost certain he saw the corner of Damian's mouth twitch.

There it was again.

That arrogance.

That look in Damian's eyes that made it seem like he was playing some kind of silent game Marcus didn't know the rules to yet.

Wanting to end this as quickly as possible, Marcus tilted his laptop toward him.

"Walk me through your reasoning."

The blond's expression shifted into something almost dangerously delighted.

Well.

That was certainly interesting.

The moment Marcus dared to ask that question, he'd expected something other than enthusiasm.

Most students panicked when asked to explain themselves directly.

Damian just looked energized.

He leaned an arm against the desk.

Marcus suddenly became very aware of how close he was.

"The reaction shifts left under increased pressure," Damian began confidently, "but only temporarily because the system compensates to reestablish equilibrium. The actual concentration change depends on temperature variance and external contamination variables."

Marcus stayed silent as he observed him quietly.

This was unusual.

Especially for Hartwell students.

Damian continued without the slightest hesitation. He wasn't stumbling over his words, nor did he sound like he was guessing.

It was pure confidence backed by actual understanding.

"The reason I skipped the calculations," Damian continued, "was because the question itself was flawed."

Marcus raised an eyebrow.

"Flawed?"

Okay, who exactly did this man think he is, criticizing his work like this?!

The rich bastard.

Marcus had been doing this for eight years, and this guy had the audacity—

Meanwhile, Damian seemed completely oblivious to Marcus's internal fury and simply nodded once.

"You treated the reaction environment as perfectly controlled."

Marcus stared at him for a full second, and had the urge to choke himself.

The universe was playing a sick joke on him.

Damian was fucking right.

Technically—somehow—he was right.

And honestly, that wasn't even the biggest problem.

Despite what he'd heard, this didn't match the version of Damian everyone described.

Everyone described him as a menace.

The kind of student teachers feared.

A professional boxer capable of breaking someone's skull for sport.

And most importantly: a rich asshole.

Right this moment, the person sitting in Marcus's office wasn't acting like that version of Damian at all.

Damian Cross wasn't supposed to dissect advanced chemistry concepts this effortlessly.

Marcus folded his hands together and made direct eye contact with him.

"You could've included that criticism in your written response."

"I know."

"Then why didn't you?"

Damian held his gaze evenly.

"You probably wouldn't have read it."

For some odd reason, that answer landed harder than it should've.

There wasn't even a hint of arrogance in Damian's voice.

Just blunt honesty.

Marcus looked back down at the screen, mostly to regain control of his thoughts.

"You still should've shown the calculations," Marcus said after a beat.

Damian gave him a crooked grin.

"So I'm still losing points?"

"Yes."

"That's really cold."

"That's how my class works."

Damian laughed softly.

Marcus was starting to hate that sound more than he should.

It was too genuine.

Marcus adjusted the stacks of papers on his desk.

"If that's all—"

"It's not."

Marcus forced his gaze up.

Damian was already watching him too closely.

"What else?" he asked evenly.

Damian's gaze flicked toward his hands before returning to his face.

"You always stay this late?"

"That is not your concern."

"Probably not," Damian said lightly. "Doesn't stop me from being curious."

"It is most certainly not your concern."

Damian hummed like Marcus had said something entertaining.

"You work too much," Damian added.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You just look exhausted."

That caught him off guard.

His voice came out sharper than intended. "You came here to discuss chemistry, did you not?"

He exhaled before continuing. "Not me."

"Right." Damian smiled slowly. "Chemistry."

As Damian stood to leave, Marcus forced himself not to watch too closely.

He should not be noticing any of this.

Damian shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing at him with amusement.

"So are you always an asshole, or am I getting special treatment?"

Marcus stared at him with the flattest expression known to mankind.

"Then you are getting special treatment."

Damian laughed again, heading toward the door.

Before stepping out, he turned back.

"You know, Dr. Monroe... you're way more interesting than any professor I've ever had."

What?

This was exactly why boundaries existed.

Because men like Damian Cross lived to break rules and push buttons.

If Marcus was being realistic—the man was smart enough to become an academic problem.

And an even bigger one for Marcus's mental health.