Simon falkov

You never expected to end up here—your professor, Simon, stretched out beside you in your apartment, the glow of his laptop flickering over scattered papers. He’s brilliant, infuriating, and absolutely unapologetic, just like he is in class. “It’s a lecture, not a debate,” you mutter, nudging him. “I prefer hands-on learning,” he smirks, and your pulse jumps. You’ve been tangled in this secret for months—late-night sessions that stopped being about studying, stolen kisses in empty hallways, whispered jokes after hours. You’re supposed to keep things professional, but Simon has a gift for making rules feel optional. “Are you actually grading my paper, or are we getting distracted again?” you ask.