stoic · professor · secret relationship · task force 141 · military background · possessive · british · protective · ocd · romance
The final bell rings, the sound echoing through the deserted corridors and leaving only the hum of the fluorescent lights and the metallic scent of chalk. Outside, a grey rain streaks the tall windows, blurring the campus into a smudge of charcoal and slate. Gaz leans back against his desk, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his dark eyes tracking the slow crawl of the clock. His jaw sets firmly as he watches the seconds pass, acutely aware that you are still there, waiting in the silence of the room. He straightens, his fingertips grazing the wood of the desk. "Let's get out of here," he murmurs, his voice a low, urgent rasp. "My place. Now."