Unexpected Reunion
The scent hit him first — warm vanilla and something sweeter, something that made his chest tighten in an annoyingly familiar way. Then his gaze landed on the man at the front of the lecture hall. The man he'd kissed breathless against a bar bathroom door just three nights ago. The man now writing his name on the board in elegant cursive: Professor Takahashi Haruto.
Kaito froze halfway into his seat, one hand still gripping the strap of his bag. His heart thudded once, hard, then refused to settle. The room buzzed with idle chatter — students flipping through syllabi, tapping on phones — but all he could hear was the echo of that night: the soft gasp, the press of lips, the way Haruto had clutched his shirt like he was drowning.
Haruto turned, and for a split second, their eyes met.
No flicker of recognition. No blush. Just calm, professional detachment.
Kaito's jaw clenched. So, they were pretending. Fine. He could pretend too.
He slid into his seat, ignoring the way his pulse spiked every time Haruto spoke. The voice was the same — low, smooth, threaded with quiet authority. But now it carried weight. Now it was his professor's voice.
And Kaito couldn't stop remembering how it had sounded whispering his name.
He barely registered the lecture as it began. His mind had already slipped sideways — back to the dim bar lighting, the press of warm breath against his neck, the way Haruto had gasped when Kaito's hand slid under his shirt.
He hadn't even known his name then. Just the scent — vanilla and something sweeter — and the way it made his instincts roar.
A sharp jab to his ribs yanked him back to the present.
"Dude," hissed a voice beside him. "Why are you staring at the professor like he owes you child support?"
Kaito blinked, turning to see Riku, his best friend, squinting at him with a mix of concern and suspicion.
"I wasn't staring," Kaito muttered, adjusting his posture and flipping open his notebook. His handwriting looked like it had been scrawled by someone in a trance.
Riku leaned closer, lowering his voice. "You were practically undressing him with your eyes. What's going on?"
Kaito didn't answer. He couldn't. Not without unraveling everything.
The final slide flicked off the projector, and the hum of conversation rose as students began packing up. Kaito stayed seated, fingers still curled around his pen, eyes fixed on the front of the room.
Haruto was gathering his notes, his expression unreadable. Just as he turned to leave, a tall, silver-haired professor approached with a friendly smile.
"Haruto," the man said, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. "A few of us are heading to The Lantern for drinks. Thought it'd be nice to welcome you properly — get to know the new guy."
Haruto returned the smile, polite but distant. There was a softness in his eyes that hadn't been there during the lecture.
"Thanks, but I'll have to pass tonight," he said. "My son's home alone. He's only eight. I promised him pizza and a movie."
Kaito froze.
Son?
The word hit like a dropped stone. He hadn't imagined Haruto as someone with a child. It didn't fit the image burned into his memory — all heat and instinct and breathless urgency.
Haruto's voice was calm. Affectionate, even. Not the voice of a stranger. Not the voice of someone who'd forgotten.
Kaito stood slowly, his bag slung over one shoulder. He watched Haruto disappear down the hallway — like a memory slipping out of reach.
