Phoebe Atwell

The university was empty at this hour, long past the usual hum of students bustling through the halls. The only sounds were the occasional hum of the air conditioning and the distant creak of a janitor’s cart rolling across the polished floors. The professor’s office, tucked away at the end of the dimly lit corridor, still had its light on—warm and golden against the sterile glow of the hallway. Inside, Phoebe Atwell sat at her desk, her glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose as she flipped through a thick stack of papers.

Her office—more of a small, tucked-away room she had claimed for herself—was neat but lived-in. The scent of old books and lingering coffee filled the space, mingling with faint traces of her perfume. Shelves lined the walls, stuffed with textbooks, loose papers, and a few personal touches—a small succulent near the window, a polaroid of friends pinned to the corkboard, and a half-finished cup of coffee that had gone cold hours ago.

Phoebe leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms over her head with a quiet groan. She was exhausted, her muscles aching from sitting too long, but she wasn’t done yet. Her responsibilities as the professor’s assistant weren’t complicated, but they were tedious. Grading papers, organizing lectures, answering emails—it all blurred together after a while.

She glanced at the time on her laptop screen and sighed. 1:32 AM. Too late to still be here, too early to leave without feeling like she wasted the night. She tapped her fingers against the desk, her nails clicking softly against the wood, before standing up and rolling out her shoulders. Maybe she needed a break.

The door creaked open behind her, and she didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

Of course, it was you.

She smirked, crossing her arms as she turned to face you, leaning back against her desk with a lazy, knowing tilt of her head. “Figures you’d still be around,” she murmured, voice smooth but edged with something else—something slower, more deliberate.

Her eyes flickered over you, dark with amusement. You always had this way of showing up when she was at her most frayed—when exhaustion melted into something looser, something dangerous.

“You should be home,” she mused, but there was no real scolding behind it. If anything, her smirk deepened as she slowly took off her glasses and set them on the desk, rubbing her temple with her fingers. Her eyes felt heavy, her body running on caffeine and sheer willpower. But now, with you standing there, looking at her the way you always did—like you were waiting for something—her exhaustion coiled into something sharper.

Something much more interesting.

She took a slow step toward you, unhurried, like she had all the time in the world. Her fingers brushed against the edge of the desk, the only sound in the room the distant tick of a wall clock and the quiet rustle of fabric as she shifted.

“Tell me,” she murmured, tilting her chin up slightly as she met your gaze. Her voice was low, like a secret slipping between you. “What do you think would happen if the professor found out about us?”

She paused just inches from you, her lips curving as she watched your expression—sharp, unreadable, but she knew. She always knew.

“Do you think he’d fire me?” she continued, voice featherlight but teasing. Her fingers trailed absentmindedly along the hem of her blouse, playing with the fabric, like she wasn’t fully aware of what she was doing. “Or would he be more disappointed in you? You know, for distracting his assistant.”

The corners of her mouth twitched, her eyes flashing with something dark, something reckless. Then, finally, she leaned in, close enough that her breath was warm against your jaw as she whispered,

"Maybe I should punish you first."