“Have a good night, Professor,” sailed back over his shoulder, before he hooked the door with his foot and pulled it to in his wake.
Fox just glared after him, sinking down deeper into his chair with a grumble.
What an odd, odd young man.
It was quite annoying, how Fox couldn’t ignore him.
And quite annoying how, the following morning, Summer was practically vibrating during office hours, restless and clumsy and dropping his pen, his near-empty cup of coffee, the textbook he was referencing to double-check Fox’s lesson plan for the day. Always the constant glances from under his lashes, the blushing, the way he caught his lower lip in just one canine tooth so that it drew in on one side and only turned more lush, plush, reddened and enticing on the other.
Fox absolutely refused to look.
Just as he absolutely refused to look at the way, when he concentrated, Summer would catch the tip of his pen between his lips and chew at it delicately, his mouth working over it in soft caresses and the pen indenting his mouth in yielding, pillowy curves, the pressure and friction turning it redder and redder.
Fox wasn’t watching.
He was grading an essay, damn it all to hell. He wasn’t—
“Stop that,” he hissed, and snapped a hand across the desk to pull the pen from between Summer’s fingers, his lips, his teeth. “You’ll damage your teeth.”
Summer froze, fingers still poised in the shape of the pen, wide eyes flicking from the textbook to Fox. His button-down shirt was pale blue today, the perfect color against suntanned skin, and he was far too casual with the sleeves cuffed to his elbows to bare toned forearms, his collarbones stark ridges past the open V of the neck.
Honestly, had no one spoken to him about the dress code?
“Um,” Summer said, eyes still a little too wide. “Sorry?”
“Simply don’t do it again.” Fox set the pen down very firmly between the open pages of the textbook. “It’s quite distracting.”
Summer winced, averting his eyes. “Sorry,” he repeated. “I—”
He was cut off by a knock on the door. Summer glanced over his shoulder, while Fox lifted his head; through the frosted glass window inset in the door, he could just make out the shape of a student, marked by the typical navy blue of the uniform blazer.
“Enter,” he said, schooling his face to impassivity.
The door creaked open tentatively. “Professor Iseya...?” a cracking voice asked—either nervousness or puberty, he could never tell.
The boy who peeked around the door was tall, gangly, still growing into his limbs, still growing out of his pimples, his shock of reddish-brown hair always a mess; Fox recognized him as Craig Rockwell, from block two class period. He held his Principles of Modern Psychology textbook clutched tight against his chest, several pieces of bent and creased note paper crammed in between the pages.
Craig started to open his mouth—then stopped, staring at Summer. “Oh, um...if you’re busy, I’ll come back later.”
“Have you forgotten already that Mr. Hemlock is my assistant, and here to assist you as well?” Fox bit off. Honestly, if he couldn’t even pay attention to that... He arched a brow, toying his pen between his fingers. “What can I do for you, Mr. Rockwell?”
Craig cringed, going visibly pale, straightening his shoulders as if he’d been called to attention. “Um!” He cleared his throat, looking somewhere over Fox’s head. “I...um, there’s a part in the homework, in the chapter on developmental child psychology...um, they talk about toddlers, but like, there’s variable age ranges? On Google? I’m not sure what the right age range is and that seems like it kinda matters to answer the question?”
Fox started to open his mouth—but Summer got there first, perking and twisting in his chair. “That’s actually—”
He froze. So did Craig.
And both slid their eyes toward Fox, watching him with a sort of wary trepidation, before Summer broke into a sheepish smile, ducking his head.
Interesting.
Summer had utterly frozen in front of an entire class full of students, but faced with only one...
He’d immediately jumped to respond, confident enough in his answer to not even check with Fox first.
Fox lidded his eyes, watching them over the pen propped between his fingers, before flicking his fingers.
“Continue, Mr. Hemlock. Mr. Rockwell, please have a seat and allow Mr. Hemlock to assist you.”
That bright smile lit Summer up again, and he flashed a grateful glance at Fox before beckoning to Craig. Craig looked more uncertain, gaze flicking between Fox and Summer, before he settled down gingerly in the second chair, propped his book open on the arm of it, and leaned toward Summer, underlining a passage with his fingertip.
“Here,” he said slowly. “This is the part that confused me.”
“Oh!” Summer perked. “Wow, we’re still using the same textbook? I remember this. Look, if you flip back here it talks about age ranges as defined by psychiatric assessment standards versus like, child milestone development standards in pediatrics, so you’ll find the range...”
He was already flipping back through the pages, while Craig leaned in curiously, eyes wide, following along.
Fox simply leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together against his stomach.
Interesting indeed.
Summer’s effusiveness seemed to put Craig at ease in a way that Fox had never truly mastered; he wasn’t one for ease, not really. He had to draw clear lines between himself and the students, and he simply...
Wasn’t one for demonstrative emotions.
You weren’t always like this, Fox.
His therapist’s voice in his head again.
How long had it been since he’d made an appointment? Years. Maybe even a decade. At some point grief counseling had seemed pointless, when every day was unchanging, unending, and he had nothing more to report but another day of fulfilling his job, keeping himself closed away so that the children couldn’t sense a moment of weakness and prey on it like the strange little things they were.
That was the odd thing about children.
So vulnerable. So sensitive. So easily broken.
So very carnivorous, with their underdeveloped brains and still growing sense of empathy.
They needed gentle handling, nurturing.
With
