The office smelled the same as it always did. Cedar and old paper, the faint ghost of his sandalwood cologne clinging to the worn leather of the chair behind the desk. Mickle sat with his back to the door, a stack of final grades spread across the polished wood, the numbers blurring as the afternoon light slanted through the blinds. Three months since that first night in the soundproof room. Three months of stolen hours and whispered commands, of her body learning his rhythms until she moved before he spoke.

The door opened without a knock.

He didn't turn. He knew the weight of her footsteps now, the particular hesitation at the threshold before she committed to crossing it. "The graduation ceremony ended an hour ago. I assumed you'd be with your family."

"I told them I forgot something."

Her voice was different. Lighter. He turned in the chair and found her standing in the doorway, the black graduation robe hanging from her shoulders, the cap tucked under one arm. Her hair was down, falling past her shoulders in waves he'd watched her curl this morning from across his bedroom. The blue eyes that had once looked at him with defiance now held something softer. Something that made his chest tighten.

"You look ridiculous," he said.

She smiled. "You're a terrible liar."

She crossed the room in three steps, the robe whispering against her stockings, and dropped the cap on his desk before sliding into his lap. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her scent—vanilla and the faint salt of summer heat—filling the space between them. She kissed him without preamble, her mouth warm and certain, tasting of the coffee she'd probably been nursing through the ceremony.

He let himself have it for a moment. Let his hands find her waist, the curve of her hip beneath the thin fabric. She pressed closer, her tongue tracing his lower lip, and he felt the familiar ache bloom in his chest. Three months and it hadn't dulled. If anything, it had sharpened.

She pulled back, breathless, her forehead resting against his. "I'm leaving tomorrow."

"I know."

"My train's at seven in the morning. Warsaw, then Berlin. Then—"

"I know what your itinerary is, Paulina." He said it gently, his thumb tracing her jaw. "I helped you book it."

She laughed, a small broken sound. "Right. Of course." She looked at him, her eyes searching his face like she was memorizing it. "I don't know when I'll see you again."

"You'll see me when you come back."

"And if I don't come back?"

The question hung between them. He didn't answer it. He couldn't.

She shifted in his lap, her thighs pressing against his, and he felt the heat of her through the thin layers separating them. Her fingers found the collar of his shirt, tracing the line of it. "One more time," she said. "Before I go. I need—" She stopped, her voice catching. "I need to feel you. One more time."

His hands tightened on her hips. "Here?"

"Here." She glanced at the desk behind her, the papers scattered across it. "On that table. Where you grade papers and pretend you don't think about me."

"I don't pretend."

Something flickered in her eyes. Hope, maybe. Or hunger. The same thing that had been there that first night in the soundproof room, when he'd read her words aloud and watched her come apart.

He stood, lifting her with him, and turned to clear the desk in a single sweep. Papers scattered to the floor, a pen clattered against the wood, and she laughed—a real laugh this time, bright and surprised—as he set her down on the edge of the polished surface.

"You're going to make a mess," she said.

"I'll clean it later."

He stepped between her thighs, pushing the graduation robe aside, revealing the simple white dress beneath. She'd worn it for the ceremony, he knew. She'd shown him the photo on her phone three weeks ago, asking if he liked it. He'd said it was fine. He'd lied.

She was beautiful. She'd always been beautiful. But now, with her hair loose and her eyes bright and her skin flushed with the knowledge that this was goodbye—she was devastating.

He kissed her again, slower this time, his hands finding the hem of her dress and pushing it up her thighs. She gasped against his mouth as his fingers found her, already wet beneath the thin fabric of her underwear. Three months and her body still responded to him like it had been waiting.

"Mickle," she breathed.

"I know."

He pulled her underwear down, watching her as she lifted her hips to help him. The black fabric caught on her ankle and she kicked it free, letting it fall somewhere on the floor. Her dress bunched around her waist, her thighs spread, and she was bare beneath him, open and waiting.

He didn't rush. He undid his belt with deliberate slowness, watching her watch him. Her breath came faster, her chest rising and falling beneath the white fabric. When he freed himself, she bit her lip, her eyes darkening.

"No protection," she said. It wasn't a question.

"No protection."

"Good."

He stepped closer, the head of his cock pressing against her, slick with her arousal. She reached down and guided him, her fingers warm and sure, and he pushed inside her in a single slow, deliberate motion.

Her head fell back, a sound escaping her throat that was half gasp, half moan. Her hands gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white, as he filled her completely. He stilled for a moment, letting her feel him, letting the heat of her wrap around him like a promise.

"Look at me," he said.

She did. Her blue eyes met his, wide and wet and full of everything she'd never said aloud.

"This is real," he said. "Whatever happens tomorrow, whatever city you end up in—this is real. Do you understand?"

She nodded, her throat working. "Yes."

"Say it."

"This is real." Her voice cracked. "You're real."

He started moving. Slow at first, deep thrusts that pushed her back against the wood, the desk creaking beneath them. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, and she moaned his name like a prayer.

The office was quiet except for the sounds they made. The wet slide of him inside her, the slap of skin against skin, her broken breaths and his guttural groans. The lamp on the corner of the desk cast a single circle of light across them, catching the sheen of sweat on her collarbone, the flush spreading down her chest.

He leaned down and captured her mouth, swallowing her sounds as he fucked her. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, and he felt her start to tighten around him, her body trembling toward the edge.

"Not yet," he said against her lips.

"I can't—"

"You can." He slowed, his thrusts becoming shallow, teasing. She whimpered, her nails raking his scalp. "You'll come when I tell you to."

She nodded, breathless, her eyes squeezed shut. He watched her fight it, watched the muscles in her thighs tense and release as she held herself on the edge for him. The power of it—the trust it required—made his chest ache.

He reached between them and found her clit, pressing his thumb against it in tight circles. She gasped, her hips bucking against his hand. "Mickle—please—"

"Now," he said. "Come for me."

She shattered. Her back arched off the desk, her mouth falling open in a soundless cry as her body clenched around him, pulsing in waves that pulled him with her. He buried himself deep, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, and let himself follow her over the edge.

He came inside her, hot and thick, his forehead pressed against hers as the world narrowed to the space between their bodies. She held him, her legs still wrapped around him, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on the back of his neck.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The only sound was their breathing, ragged and uneven, slowly returning to something like normal.

She laughed softly. "That was—"

"Yeah."

"I'm going to miss this."

He pulled back, looking at her. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen, her eyes still hazy with pleasure. She looked wrecked. She looked beautiful. She looked like she was already gone.

"I'll be here," he said. "When you come back."

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Promise?"

"I don't make promises I can't keep."

She kissed him, soft and sweet, a goodbye pressed into his mouth. Then she slid off the desk, her legs shaky, and pulled her underwear back up with hands that trembled. She smoothed her dress, adjusted her robe, picked up her graduation cap from where it had fallen on the floor.

At the door, she paused. Looked back at him once more.

"Thank you," she said. "For everything."

Then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving him alone in the office that smelled like cedar and old paper and her.