Apr 11
sitting underneath the professor’s desk while he’s burning the late night candle; not doing anything to him in particular, but showing in subtle gestures that I’m content in his presence.
my cheek against his thigh and my eyes closed as I focus on the methodical tacking of his fingertips against his keyboard. the sound abruptly stops every couple of minutes, only to be followed by the frantic scratching of pen against paper. a cycle that repeats for hours. I steady my breath, deep and slow, to the erratic pace of his hands. I give a heavy sigh, nuzzling my cheek against the smell of his day-old denims.
his gaze very rarely shifts down to acknowledge me when he’s busy. but I’m he knows I’m exactly where I want to be.
