My life has spiraled out of control.

Ten years ago

Another class of freshmen sat before him in the lecture hall, half with expressions of rapt attention, and the other half looking like they'd rather be anywhere but there. He was used to both types and all the variations in between. He could tell at a glance which ones would pass, which would fail, and which wouldn't be seen after this first class until the day of the final—which was listed on the syllabus, copies of which were circulating the hall.

"Welcome to Art History," he began, and, as usual, he noted that almost everyone sat up straighter. His British accent tended to have that effect on Americans. He wasn't quite sure why—perhaps it lent him a more knowledgeable, authoritative air than if he'd been American himself—but he knew that, for whatever reason, it did happen, and he used it to his advantage when he could. "I'm Professor Roché, and I'll be your instructor for the next sixteen weeks."

He dimly became aware of the strawberry blond in the fourth row flat-out staring at him. Ordinarily, such occurrences didn't faze him—he'd been teaching for eight years by now—but the teenager hadn't blinked once and, even from here, he could see that his eyes were a wild shade of blue. He made eye contact with the student for the briefest of moments before the boy smirked. Roché looked away almost immediately, a strange feeling creeping into his chest. He went on, pretending nothing unusual had happened. "In my experience, there are only two types of students who take my class: those who are wildly passionate about art, and those who missed the registration for all other arts classes."

A ripple of laughter echoed through the hall. Good. The ice was broken a bit, and now these students would see he wasn't as much of a hard-arse as he looked. At five-foot-eleven, he was slightly taller than average, and he favored what Professor Talbot in the Sciences department called the "absent-minded professor" look, all casual suits and sweater-vests, at least at work. Thankfully, he didn't wear glasses yet—he was only thirty-four—but with the lines forming at the corners of his eyes and on his forehead, he looked older than he was, although his blue eyes and blond, curly hair, while short, still lent him a bit of a cherubic appearance. Overall, he looked a bit unusual, but none of his students yet had seen him leaving campus in leathers on his motorbike. His reputation would be permanently tarnished if that ever happened.

He slid a sheet of paper, blank save for an outline of the seats in the hall, off the podium and handed it to the girl farthest to the right in the front row. "I'm certain you've seen this before, but in case any of you were home-schooled or lived under a rock for the last eighteen years, I'm sending around a seating chart. Just fill in your name in the appropriate seat and the last person—that should be you," he added to the girl in the back row on the left, "bring it back to me."

Against his better judgment, he glanced back at the strawberry blond, who still hadn't looked away—or stopped smirking. He was actually rather attractive, in a predatory sort of way. He almost looked—and Roché stopped that train of thought before he let it derail him. He knew the perils of teaching horny college students. The temptation to sleep with young, hot, just-turned-legal teenagers was nearly overwhelming for a lot of professors (especially when the teenagers would offer to "do anything" for a better grade), and he refused to give in to temptation. He'd made it eight years without succumbing, and he planned to make it twenty years or more longer. Fucking a student certainly wouldn't help his career.

Even one as preternaturally bangable as the strawberry blond in the fourth row.

"As for the syllabus, I'm certain you all can read, or else a fair enough approximation that allowed you to make it this far, so I'll let you peruse it at your leisure. However, there are a few things not on the syllabus that I'd like to go over with you.

"First, my attendance policy. I don't require you to be at every lecture—Heaven knows when I was eighteen the last thing I wanted to do was spend every waking moment studying. Really, it's your money paying for this course, not mine—I get paid the same no matter how many students attend my lectures. However, if at the end of the semester, there are two hypothetical students with Ds and one attended almost every single class while the other only showed up to, say, five, the first student may get a push from a D to a C. I'm certain that the C would help your grade point average far more than the D would."

Scattered snickers sounded from behind careful hands. He was well-aware of the double entendre, but he let them laugh. If he were still eighteen and sex-obsessed, he'd probably chuckle, too. As it was, he maintained a perfectly straight face.

"What about extra credit?" someone called from the sixth row.

"Planning to fail already, are we?" Roché shot back, his tone obviously mocking. More laughter echoed around the room, including from the strawberry blond, who leaned back carefully in his seat. He twirled his pen between his fingers in an exaggeratedly casual way as he waited for the seating chart to arrive in front of him.

"Actually, a very good question," he went on once the laughter died down. "And one I was planning to answer shortly, but I'll just skip right ahead. As a rule, I don't assign extra credit. However, I know that life happens—family members take ill, hospitalizations that would prevent you from attending class for an extended amount of time, demonic possessions..." He added the last one as a joke. A few people laughed. "A few years ago, I had a student whose sister was killed in Iraq. C student, attended class fairly often. He had to fly back out to Maine for her funeral, so he was gone for about four weeks. When he came back, his extra credit bumped him to a high B. So I'm not unreasonable when it comes to things like that—just let me know. My phone numbers and email address are on the syllabus."

The strawberry blond's eyes flicked down to the paper. Roché had had to list both his cell and office numbers on the sheet, but he could check his work email even from home, so there was no point in giving out his personal email address. Still, given the sheer volume of obnoxious, drunken text messages former students sent him, he was considering changing his number and getting a burn phone for students to call or text anyway.

"Speaking of phones—my cell phone policy during class is fairly lax. Keep them on silent or vibrate. If any go off during class, I'll confiscate them until the end of the lesson. This is your first and only warning. Try to keep the texting to a minimum—I do notice who pays attention and who doesn't—and I ask that you not answer calls at all, but if it's absolutely an emergency, just step outside until you finish." As he spoke, he saw at least a dozen people begin playing with their phones. Turning them down, he hoped.

His own phone buzzed in his pocket, and he had to check his own temptation to immediately check it. It was probably Bela—Professor Talbot during work, he reminded himself—with a link to some article or another that she'd been quoted in. She was obscenely proud of herself, but Roché couldn't fault her for that. She had every right to be. She was bloody brilliant.

"Snacks," he said, and a boy in the fifth row froze with a cookie halfway to his mouth. Roché almost laughed at his stunned expression. "I allow them. Drinks should be kept in a container with a lid or cap, and keep food messes to a minimum. If you make a mess, you clean it up, or I change my policy on that."

The boy looked to sigh with relief and took a bite from his cookie.

The strawberry blond in the fourth row finally got the seating chart. He scribbled his name quickly before handing it to the boy next to him. Actually, the boy had left a seat between himself and the strawberry blond. Now that Roché was looking, he realized that there was no one directly next to him. The seats on either side of him were vacant, as were the two immediately in front of and behind him. Maybe that was why Roché had noticed him at first—there was a circle of void around him. It drew the eye. He wondered if it was intentional—if the strawberry blond had meant for it—or if he just radiated an air of danger that the other students could sense but Roché couldn't. Certainly the studded leather jacket seemed a bit contrived (Roché was used to students, especially freshmen, showing up to their first few classes in attire intended to make a statement, and then later growing more and more lazy until they showed up practically in pajamas), but it didn't seem to be enough to intimidate anyone.

He had to stop. It was only the first class, and already he had honed in on one student to the point of distraction—and the student in question was doing nothing to ease his near-obsession. Maybe this was what Bela referred to as "the siren." Every teacher, she said, had at least one student during the course of their career that they wanted to fuck senseless. That was "the siren," so called for the power they wielded, either known or not, and for the fact that you'd probably be hearing police sirens if you didn't handle the temptation correctly.

He would have to ask her about this later.

He went on for a few minutes longer until the last student wrote down her name and scurried forward with the seating chart in hand. Perfect timing, actually, because he was pretty sure he was starting to lose people. Boring first-day nonsense was usually enough to make anyone yawn.

He resisted the impulse to check the strawberry blond's name first, instead starting at the first row all the way to the right with redheaded Anna Milton. A few names stuck out here and there, but one name, penned in garish red ink amidst a sea of blacks and blues, was painfully obvious. Lucifer Pellegrino, fourth row, fourth from the left.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, too quietly to be heard even a foot away. He was used to first-day shenanigans as well. Several students found it funny to write down fake names. He looked up, letting annoyance show on his face. "Don't be a smart-arse, Mr. Pellegrino."

The strawberry blond's head tilted to the side and an eyebrow quirked up. "What do you mean?" he asked. Roché had to hand it to him—he had the innocent act down perfectly.

"I need your actual name, not what your friends call you." It was a good nickname, though. Calling yourself the Devil was edgy, if a tad overdone. Roché's left hand hovered over the chart, ready to scratch out Pellegrino's ersatz first name and write down his real one.

The student in question began to smirk again. "That is my real name. On my birth certificate and everything."

"I see," Roché said coolly. "And do you have a brother named Michael, by chance?"

"I do, actually. My twin. My dad thought it was clever."

Tell your dad he's a bloody idiot. "Noted."

"Everyone calls me 'Lu,' though. 'Lucifer' is a bit much for some people."

"That, I don't doubt," Roché muttered, just loud enough to be heard, and the first few rows laughed while the back rows wondered what they'd missed.

Lu still smirked, and Balthazar Roché began to realize that, with this infuriatingly hot eighteen-year-old who had for some reason been named after Satan, this semester was going to be a long one.

Present day

His alarm blared obnoxiously, waking him far too soon. He hit the snooze button, threw his arm over his eyes, and tried to fall back asleep for a few minutes.

He used to be excited to go to work—or at least, he didn't dread it. Sometime in the past five years it seemed, his life had spiraled downward until he hated every moment of every day. It was probably about three years ago, now that he had to think about it. Nine years ago, he began throwing himself into his work, drawing in equal parts admiration and ire from Bela, until he was working almost constantly. He was able to maintain that ragged pace for nearly six years until he snapped and took a sabbatical with only a month's notice to UCLA. When he came back a year later, he found his hours halved as Professor Gabriel Speight, the instructor who'd replaced him the previous year, stayed on to teach Art History alongside him.

It was infuriating, but Balthazar had no one to blame but himself.

Everything had changed while he was gone. He'd traveled back home—not to London, where he'd lived from eleven to twenty-two, but to France, his native homeland. Traveling around, visiting relatives he hadn't seen in thirty years or more, speaking nothing but French for a year had all refreshed him, until his year off drew to a close.

Coming back was an unpleasant return to reality and the tedium of everyday life. First thing on his list was getting his motorbike out of storage—until he found a new place to live, he wouldn't be able to get any of his furniture. At first, he thought he'd be able to slide right back into his old apartment or at least one in the same building, but he found out too late that there was a new landlord who didn't recognize any verbal or written contracts the old landlady had made—meaning Balthazar was forced to couch-surf for nearly a month before he found a new place.

He'd been forty-two years old, not twenty-two. It was humiliating to have to ask friends if he could sleep on their couches. Bela wasn't an option anymore, either—after his breakdown the year before and subsequent year away, replying only briefly to her emails, she'd gotten bored of waiting for him to come back and found a new... well, whatever he'd been to her. He didn't like her term "fuck buddy" because it called to his mind drunken frat parties, but it was the closest to the mark. He preferred "colleagues with benefits," but it was a bit long of a title. In any case, she'd also transferred to a different university, which bothered him at first until he realized that assimilating back into a new normal would only be complicated by old feelings she stirred up.

More often than not, he ended up sleeping in Speight's spare room. He discovered it was easier to swallow one's pride where strangers were involved as opposed to friends, and it worked out fairly well since they worked at the same place anyway. He wasn't a bad guy, either—a bit obnoxious and overly fond of practical jokes, but altogether friendly and blunt almost to a fault. It was the one trait they had in common—well, that, and their apparent bisexuality, judging by the queue of people he'd seen entering and leaving Speight's bedroom at strange hours.

Toward the end of that month, Speight had offered to let him just move into the other room and start paying half the rent, but Balthazar declined. He couldn't room with someone anymore; he'd grown too set in his ways and he enjoyed his time alone. There was also a few aspects of Speight's personality that he tolerated but knew he couldn't live with. It was a relief to finally find an apartment only a few blocks away from campus.

Two years later, he was still here, in the sleek modern confines of his six-year-old apartment. He didn't hate it necessarily, but he'd much prefer to burn the whole building down than sign on for another year-long lease. Unfortunately, that wasn't possible, so he was stuck.

He sighed when his alarm went off again. He was tempted to hit snooze again or just call in to work, but he'd already called in once this month. He didn't want to make it a habit.

He was pretty sure there were students with better attendance records than him.

After a quick shower, breakfast, and dressing, he finally headed out the door with his briefcase in one hand and a Thermos of coffee in the other. Ten years ago, he hadn't been forced to rely on caffeine to make him feel human, but ten years ago, he'd been younger. Part of him mourned his waning youth, and another part of him protested loudly that he didn't feel that old, what was with him? But most of him was counting the hours until the weekend—it was Friday, and once he got home, he'd put off reading those essays in favor of watching Netflix and praying his phone didn't ring.

"Hey, Balthy!" Speight greeted him as he entered their shared office. It had originally just been his, but the sabbatical had made the school give it to Speight. Now, with too few offices for too many faculty, they weren't the only ones who shared an office.

"Gabe," he replied with a nod. He supposed they were friends, in the same way that Iron Man and Batman might be friends—same line of work and mutual respect, but never truly intended to meet. He fathomed himself to be more in the vein of Iron Man—he was a Marvel guy anyway—which worked out well since Gabriel preferred all things DC, Batman included. They really were from different worlds, though.

"So, Balthy." Gabriel leaned back in his swivel chair, twirling his pen in a way that vaguely reminded Balthazar of someone, but he couldn't quite figure out who. "Got a proposition for you."

"No," he said immediately. None of his harebrained schemes ever worked out quite like he'd planned.

"You don't even know what I'm suggesting!"

"No, and I don't need to." Balthazar set his briefcase onto his desk and settled into his chair. The first class started in a half an hour—Gabriel taught that one, meaning he'd have two more hours of peace once the short nuisance left.

"Come on, just listen!"

"No."

"You won't be sorry," he wheedled.

Balthazar groaned, rubbing his eyes in frustration. This was how Gabriel operated—he pushed and cajoled and bargained until he got what he wanted. It worked every bloody time. "Fine. What is it?"

"I know how to get you out of this slump!" Gabriel announced.

"I'm not in a slump."

Gabriel snorted. "The Hell, you aren't. Come on—Barnes in Physics says you used to be way more cheerful."

Balthazar rolled his eyes. I'm getting too old to deal with this. "And I say she needs to mind her own bloody business."

"But I have the solution!" Gabriel went on, oblivious to Balthazar's grumbling.

"Heaven forbid you keep me in suspense."

"I'm setting you up with a friend of mine. You're going on a date tonight."

"Hell. Bloody. No."

"Come on, I know the look of a guy who hasn't been laid in a year."

"I've been busy."

"Yeah, and now you'll be busier."

He ran his fingers through his hair, suppressing another groan. There went his plans for a quiet night in. "Jesus. A friend of yours? You're like, what, thirty?"

"Hey! Twenty-seven!"

"Exactly. Which means your friend's about twenty-seven, too."

"He's twenty-eight."

"It's cradle-robbing at its basest."

"Please. I said twenty-eight, not twenty-one."

Balthazar tried to fathom that. A twenty-one-year-old at his age? He would be more than twice his age. Again, he felt the years creeping up on him as he remembered being twenty-five and thinking that forty wasn't so bad. On this side of forty, though, it sucked. "I'm sensing I have no choice in the matter."

"Nope," Gabriel said cheerfully. "So wear something nice—and not something you'd wear to work."

"Fuck off."

"You're meeting him downtown. O'Malley's. Quiet but not too quiet, nothing too serious for a first date, and fairly liberal, if you know what I mean," he added with a wink.

Balthazar knew what he meant. It wasn't gay-operated, but patrons wouldn't be shocked to discover two men there were on a date. "What time?"

"Seven-thirty. Reservations under 'Speight.'"

Feeling like he'd been hoodwinked, Balthazar nodded in grim acceptance. He would endure this ordeal and forget all about it as soon as humanly possible.

Part of him strongly considered just not going—he was an adult, so why was he letting Gabriel run his life?—but in the end, he went, if only because it was the polite thing to do. He imagined the other man might actually be looking forward to tonight and if he didn't show up... well, once he might have not cared about courtesy, but he did now. That didn't mean he had to like the idea of being set up like he was some pathetically lonely bachelor, even though he basically was.

He also balked at the command to wear something nice, as though he hadn't been planning on just that. Admittedly, he had been contemplating not even changing out of what he'd worn to work, but perhaps Gabriel was right on that front—it made him feel even older. He wondered if Gabriel had told his friend how old his date was as he changed into dark blue jeans, a black V-neck, and his motorbike jacket. Probably not, he decided.

"Twenty-eight," he muttered to his reflection, running his fingers through his blond curls. He supposed it wasn't too bad—only sixteen years, it could be worse—but it still wasn't great. Not for the first time, he wished Gabriel could have just minded his own damn business.

He hadn't been to O'Malley's in awhile, so he left his apartment at seven even though it generally only took twenty minutes for him to navigate Los Angeles traffic to get to the bar and grille. It was also his habit to show up a few minutes early, so at seven-twenty-two, he was striding up to the hostess's stand. "Speight at seven-thirty."

"Sure. Um, it says there's two here."

"We're meeting here."

"Ah, okay. Right this way."

Once she'd shown him to the table (mercifully empty—if he'd arrived after his date, he'd feel awkward), he took the seat with his back to the door, unzipped his jacket, and settled in to wait.

Ten years ago

It should have been illegal for teachers to be that fucking hot.

Sure, he'd originally only taken this class because his major required it—he guessed he was in that second bunch of students the professor mentioned—but all of a sudden, he felt himself caring a lot more about Art History—or at least the hot British professor.

He couldn't stop staring—so sue him. He'd just come from a stifling Catholic high school where all the teachers were nuns and priests (and at least sixty to boot), so seeing this gorgeous thirty-something was more than enough to get his heart pounding. He'd definitely be coming back to this class, although whether or not he'd actually learn something remained to be seen. It probably wouldn't be good for his grade point average, but right now, he didn't give a single fuck.

The first time their eyes locked, it was just for a second or two, but Lu couldn't help smirking, especially after Roché tore his eyes away with that light flush creeping up his neck. Oh, yeah, he'd definitely noticed that. Roché went right on talking as if nothing had happened, but Lu knew he'd felt the attraction. It was making him a little dizzy, too, but he played it cool, letting his eyes follow Roché as handed a sheet of paper to the redhead in the front row and went on about seating charts. Lu saw the professor's eyes flicker back to him for a second—just for a second—but it was long enough. Roché was attracted to him, but Lu could tell already that he was one of those morally upright teachers who wouldn't act on it. That was frustrating. He didn't want to ruin his career or anything—he just wanted to fuck his brains out a few times. Was that so much to ask?

Roché drew their attention to the syllabus, talking about his attendance policy and making a subtle dick joke. It wasn't unduly clever, but it made Lu snicker anyway. Apparently Roché wasn't as straight-laced as he seemed to be. Lu initially thought maybe he was closeted, considering how he looked at him and then quickly looked away, but maybe not. It was hard to gauge from only a few minutes.

Someone asked about extra credit, and Roché responded immediately with, "Planning to fail already, are we?" Lu snorted with laughter, as did quite a few others, and he leaned back in his chair. Again, Roché's eyes found his, as if unconsciously seeking his approval.

The professor went on, mentioning a few circumstances where he'd allow extra credit (Lu let himself imagine for a few seconds what kind of extra credit he'd like to do for this class), adding that his phone numbers and email address can be found on the syllabus. Lu couldn't keep from looking down, and his gaze zeroed right in on Roché's cell phone number. He made a mental note to add that number to his phone's memory as he looked back up to see that, again, Roché had been watching him.

Play the cool act all you like. I know you want me.

The seating chart appeared on his desk, and Lu uncapped his red pen. His hand hovered over the paper for a moment. He normally just wrote down "Lu" in these situations, but at this point, he was far more interested in seeing the reaction he'd get from Roché upon seeing his legal first name. So he wrote down "Lucifer Pellegrino" and passed on the chart to the next kid.

Roché got the paper back a few minutes later. Lu had to admire the obvious way he pointedly avoiding looking at the left side first. He couldn't avoid it forever, though, and just as he thought, Roché's eyes found his name. His brows furrowed and he muttered something Lu couldn't make out (though he'd watch those lips all damn day) before looking up, his expression annoyed. "Don't be a smart-arse, Mr. Pellegrino."

Lu played innocent, tilting his head to one side and raising his eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"I need your actual name, not what your friends call you."

He began smirking again. Roché was really too adorable when he was irritated. "That is my real name. On my birth certificate and everything."

"I see," Roché said icily, and Lu could tell he was miffed at having lost the first round. "And do you have a brother named Michael, by chance?"

He probably thought he was being clever, coming up with some way to salvage the situation, but he was losing even worse. "I do, actually. My twin." Not that they looked even remotely alike. "My dad thought it was clever."

"Noted," Roché nearly spat. A muscle in his jaw twitched. Lu wondered if he even realized how obvious he was being.

"Everyone calls me 'Lu,' though. 'Lucifer is a bit much for some people."

He thought he heard Roché mutter,"That, I don't doubt," and he smirked. Getting the better of teachers always brought with it a smug self-satisfaction, especially when they were as supremely fuckable as Roché. He was really going to enjoy this semester.

Present day

Lu had just dropped off his daughter at her Montessori school when his phone chirped. What now? he wondered, watching her disappear through the glass double doors. It's not like he was late for work—he had another hour before he had to be in.

Oh. It was a text from Gabriel. That didn't necessarily put his mind at ease—his cousin loved to assert himself into every facet of Lu's life ever since his relationship with Eve blew up in his face—but at least he knew he wasn't in serious trouble.

You have a date tonight.

Scratch that. He was in serious trouble. Deciding a text message just wouldn't cut it, he called Gabriel and waited for him to answer.

And waited.

And waited.

"This is the voicemail of Professor Gabriel Speight. I'm not able to answer my phone right now, so please leave a message."

"God damn it, Gabe, I've told you a hundred times not to set me up, okay? I don't need to date anyone right now." He groaned. "Jesus. I can't believe you right now. Call me back once you're out of class." That would be the only reason Gabriel wouldn't answer his call. "Fuck you very much." He hung up, got into his car, and started dialing Michael's number.

Fortunately, he did answer.

"What is it now?" Michael said with a sigh. He knew by now that the main reason Lu ever called him was because something had happened.

"Gabriel."

"What is the little ass-monkey up to now?"

"Your fucking cousin—"

"He's your cousin, too."

"Not anymore. He set me up on a date."

There was silence from Michael's end, and Lu could practically see the thoughts flying through his brother's head. "Oh, dear," he replied after a moment.

Lu heard the smile in his voice. "Stop fucking grinning, asshole. It's not funny."

"Actually—" It's pretty damn funny. Lu just knew that's what he was going to say.

"No."

"Don't you think—" He means well?

"Absolutely not."

"Well, it is—" About time you went on another date.

"Fuck off."

"Why do we even bother talking if we both know what I'm going to say?"

"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm going to say."

"I do, and again, I wonder why I even bother talking to you."

"Can't you fucking reason with him or something?"

"Come on, Lu, it's one date. It's not gonna kill you. June could use another parent after the shitstorm with Eve."

"Are you insinuating that I'm not a good father?"

"No. Come on, Lu, we both know you work too damn hard. Just for tonight, you get a chance to take off the Dad hat."

Lu hadn't mentioned that the date was tonight. Then again, he hadn't needed to. Their weird twin telepathy worked both ways. "What if I like the Dad hat?" he grumbled, knowing he was losing ground fast.

"Fine and dandy. Maybe your date will like it, too. Unless Gabriel's set you up with another bimbo, most chicks dig single dads with adorable daughters." Michael was incredibly fond of his niece.

"What makes you think he set me up with a woman?"

"Maybe his track record of the last dozen dates being women? Why, did he set you up with a guy?"

"Shit, I don't know. I don't even know who's going to watch June tonight if I'm out," he added on sudden inspiration.

"I am."

"Fuck."

"Hey, everything's fine, okay? One date, and you can go back to marvelous self-sufficiency."

"You didn't help at all." He hung up with Michael laughing at him and another text from Gabriel glaring at him.

7:30 at O'Malley's. Reservations under Speight. He's a coworker of mine, so be nice to him.

Lu rolled his eyes. Coworker, huh?

Yeah. Little bit older, but I figure you'd appreciate a bit of maturity.

Great. How old is "a little bit"? He did like maturity, but there was a line between mature and tomb-robbing.

Forties.

Oh. That wasn't so bad. Alright, well, Michael says he's watching June tonight, so I don't really have a reason to say no, do I?

Right! Have fun!

That wasn't likely, but he'd suffer through it all the same.

Seven-thirty saw him fighting Los Angeles traffic, in equal parts loathing and envying the motorcyclists splitting lanes through the jam of cars. He knew he should have left about twenty minutes before he did, but Michael had insisted on verbally harassing him until Lu nearly slugged him in the gut. He loved his brother, he really did, but he could be a bigger pain in the ass than Gabriel sometimes.

He finally arrived at O'Malley's at seven-forty-five. His date was probably already here, and he was the asshole showing up fifteen minutes late. Still, traffic's been a bitch—hopefully the guy will understand.

"Hey," he said anxiously to the hostess, rubbing his palms on his black jeans. "Two for Speight at seven-thirty. Is... is he still here?" Fifteen minutes isn't that long to wait, right? He should still be there.

"Yes, he's here. Follow me, please."

So he followed her through the restaurant, approaching what looks like their booth—to be sure, there was only one person in it, and he was definitely a guy. Lu could only see the back of his head, though. So far, not too bad—he was blond, his hair a tangle of smushed-down curls (Lu knew helmet-hair when he saw it, meaning this guy rode a motorcycle), and he could see a few inches of black leather jacket. Definitely a motorcyclist. For a guy in his forties, that was pretty cool. Still, this was a coworker of Gabriel's?

Maybe he did work at UCLA, but that didn't make him a teacher. None of his teachers were ever cool enough to ride a motorcycle. Hot enough, yes, he thought with a fond grin as he remembered Professor Roché, freshman-year Art History, but definitely not cool enough.

Maybe he was a new teacher, though. You never knew—ten years was a long time.

Sure enough, the hostess showed him to the booth with Blond Motorcyclist with a cheerful, "Can I get you something to drink or do you need a few minutes?"

"Can I get a Four Horsemen and a Mountain Dew?"

"Sure thing. Be right back." She walked away, and that was when Lu got a look at his date.

He didn't know what was funnier—the fact that Gabriel had set him up with his former teacher, or the stunned look on Roché's face. To be honest, he was just as shocked as Roché, but he was also highly amused. The intervening ten years had definitely been hard on the professor, but he was still just as gorgeous as ten years ago, maybe more so considering the leather jacket and black V-neck shirt he wore, neither of which he ever wore during class.

Roché was looking at him like he was pretty sure he knew who he was, although the look of recognition on Lu's face should have tipped him off if he didn't.

Figuring it was up to him to say something, he said, "Evening, Professor."

He'd been waiting nearly a half an hour when he sensed someone approaching from behind him. He paused, waiting, not turning his head to look even though he was burning with curiosity by now. It was torturous—and then he saw black jeans and a dark red dress shirt in his peripherals and a certain strawberry-blond someone sitting down across from him, smoothly ordering a Four Horsemen and a Mountain Dew.

Oh, sweet Jesus. He felt his heart rev up—fuck if that wasn't Lucifer Pellegrino, the bane of his existence one semester ten years ago, now all grown up and so much hotter than he'd been at eighteen. It just wasn't fair how bloody attractive he was now—he'd morphed from that sweet-but-dangerous looking teenager into someone preternaturally handsome, those eyes of his just as blue and piercing as ever. God help him, he was trying not to salivate, but he suspected he was failing miserably.

Then Lucifer actually turned his head to look at him, and there was that same smirk he recognized from day one of class. He recognized him as well, it seemed—the subtle flirting between them throughout that whole semester had apparently left an impression on him.

Part of his brain was screaming, He's not your student anymore! while another, much smaller part was still reeling, trying to reconcile just how bizarre all of this was. It was difficult, especially as Lucifer said with that same smirk, "Evening, Professor."

"You're Gabriel's friend?" It was a stupid question, but he couldn't control the words coming out of his mouth anymore.

Lucifer just seemed even more amused. "Cousin, but I'm thinking of disowning him."

"He said you were friends."

"I imagine it's less strange to set someone up with your friend as opposed to your cousin."

"Ah." He felt like an idiot with nothing to say.

Lucifer must have sensed the sexually-charged awkwardness because he said, "Maybe we should pretend we don't know each other. Hi, I'm Lu, and I'm sorry about my asshole cousin." He held out his hand, and Balthazar shook it, smiling sheepishly.

"Balthazar. Sorry about my arsehole coworker."

"I had no idea your first name was Balthazar."

"I thought we were pretending we didn't know each other."

"The statement still stands. Honestly, I always just thought of you as 'Roché.' Wondering about your first name never occurred to me."

"Thought of me often, then?" Balthazar teased, as though he hadn't thought about Lu once over the past ten years. Truth be told, sometimes his mind did go back to that one semester ten years ago and the prick of a freshman who enjoyed flirting with him, with whom he could never quite resist flirting back. He'd wondered what happened to him, but he pushed the thoughts away before he could delve too deeply into them. He idly thought of him as the one that got away, as though there had been something real between them, as though if circumstances changed there could be something. But he never thought about him for too long.

But now... maybe there could be something. Circumstances had changed. They weren't professor and student anymore. Now, they were just... them.

Lu grinned, leaning back against the booth seat. "Of course I did. You were the hottest teacher I ever had."

"'Were'?" Balthazar half-joked.

"Still are," Lu admitted. "And, sorry about class. I was a little shit."

"'Was'?" he teased.

Lu grinned. "Still am. Not quite as much, though."

"I find it hard to believe you grew up that much."

"I had to. I had a kid," Lu added quietly. A waitress came by with his drinks.

"Can I get you two anything to eat?"

Balthazar had only glanced through the menu, and Lu hadn't even cracked his. They weren't even close to ready to order. Lu flashed her a half-grin and said, "Can you give us a few more minutes?"

"Sure, no problem." She put away her notepad and went to another table.

After a few moments, Balthazar asked the question that had been running through his mind. "Divorced?" He hadn't expected Lu to have a child, but obviously they wouldn't be here if he was still married. Still, the fact that Lu had gotten married and divorced while Balthazar hadn't even gotten married—in all his forty-four years, he hadn't even come close to getting married—was a bit mind-boggling.

Lu ran his fingers through his hair. "Not quite. She got pregnant, we got engaged, she had June... Some people perform well under pressure, and some people don't."

"I'm guessing she was the latter."

"Yeah. Which makes it a really good thing I'm the former, and a really good thing I didn't actually end up marrying her. June and I haven't seen her mother in five years, which is really for the best."

"Five years?" How old was his daughter? He knew of plenty of twenty-eight-year-olds who had a child or two, but if his daughter was at least five, that would have made him twenty-three when she was born. That was incredibly young to start a family.

"Yeah. She's seven," he added, somehow sensing his unasked question. "I had to drop out to make it work, but I'm glad I did." As he spoke, a strange look crossed Lu's face—he looked happy, genuinely happy. It was obvious he cared a great deal about his daughter.

Apparently, he'd grown up quite a lot. The Lu he remembered definitely wouldn't have been able to raise a child, but this one was.

"So who's watching her tonight?"

"My brother Mike."

"Your twin, right?"

"Yeah, that's the one."

"I actually thought you were fucking with me when you mentioned him."

Lu grinned. "Reality is stranger than anything I could make up. So that's what happened in my life—what happened in yours?" he went on with mock cheerfulness.

Balthazar grinned, too. "Maybe we should figure out what to eat first. Not that it's a terribly long story or anything, but I expect our waitress will be returning soon."

It was less awkward than he thought it would be, sitting there with a former student (one he was wildly attracted to and who, in turn, was apparently attracted to him as well). It almost felt like maybe they really could start over like two people who didn't have a bizarre history.

And then he caught Lu's eye over their respective menus and he knew that, with the mischievous look on Lu's face, it wouldn't be so easy to forget.

Once their waitress got their orders and collected their menus, Lu nudged his leg under the table. "So. Your life. Go."

Balthazar let out an undignified snort of laughter. "Like I said, there's not much to tell. I went on sabbatical three years ago, came back two years ago, and basically had to start all over. Zachariah Fuller, the moronic excuse for university vice-president, hired your cousin to cover for me, and when I got back, he was still there."

"Harsh."

Balthazar shrugged. "It was only frustrating because of everything else that changed since I got back. No apartment, crashing on people's couches—mostly Gabriel's, actually—along with finding out this smarmy little cock had usurped me on top of Bel—" Whoops. He hadn't meant for her name to slip out there, but it was too late. Lu had cocked his head to the side.

"Who?"

He sighed. "Bela Talbot."

"Wait, not Professor Talbot? Science teacher?"

"Yeah, her."

"What was going on there?" Lu asked with a grin, as though it was dreadfully amusing that the only two British teachers at the school had had an affair.

"We were... well, she called it 'fuck buddies,' but I preferred the term 'colleagues with benefits.' We were friends, too, I suppose."

A slightly more serious look crossed Lu's face. "So what happened?"

"I went on my sabbatical, and she got tired of waiting for me to come back, not that I blame her. So she ended whatever it was that we had, found a new post at some school in New York, and found someone else. I wasn't in love with her or anything, but all of it at once was a bit much. After coming back from a year of something completely different, I wanted one thing to stay the same, and I didn't have that." He shrugged. "Everything worked itself out in the end, though."

It was easier after that. Conversation flowed naturally, and alcohol had very little to do with it—Balthazar never drank when he went out, and after Lu's initial Four Horsemen, he stuck with Mountain Dew. They swapped stories about Gabriel's antics (Balthazar secretly relieved that the man's shenanigans were apparently not limited to him) and kept each other laughing until the check arrived.

"I'll get it," Lu said as Balthazar reached for his wallet. "Gabe's my asshole of a cousin."

He snorted. "Maybe, but I should still get it. You've got an extra mouth to feed and no college degree."

Lu grinned and winked. "I can afford dinner. Besides, you don't have to buy me dinner to convince me to go home with you."

Balthazar let him have that one—it gave him something else to think about. Where would this date lead? Lu had flat-out said he thought he was hot, and when pressed for the truth, Balthazar would freely admit he found Lu stupidly gorgeous. Most of the first dates he'd been on had ended with sex anyway, and if this one ended the same way, it would almost have to be at his apartment—there was no way he'd be sleeping with Lu within earshot of his seven-year-old.

And then he wondered why it never occurred to either of them to just cover their own portion of the bill. That would have been the simplest solution.

They ducked out of the restaurant a few minutes later and headed toward the parking lot. Motorcycle parking was right near the front, so it wasn't much of a walk for Balthazar, but apparently Lu had had to park all the way in the back. This left them hovering near Balthazar's motorbike, both suddenly hesitant as they confronted what happened next.

They'd both hinted at sex in the very near future, but it had always been teasing, joking. Now they were wondering if the other had been serious, both wanting, but neither one willing to suggest it.

"So," Lu said, rocking slightly on his heels like a nervous teenager. It was actually rather endearing.

"So," Balthazar agreed, toying with his keys in his pocket.

"Look, Balth—" Lu started, but he was suddenly prevented from talking as Balthazar, running on sheer impulse, closed the gap between them and kissed him.

For a second, Balthazar worried that he'd made the wrong decision until Lu exhaled sharply and ran his fingers through Balthazar's hair, his other arm winding around his neck. Thank God.

Without realizing it, they'd both been waiting ten long years for this. Too long—the last thing Balthazar wanted was to let him go now. Part of him hated that he'd waited all this time, but he'd had to. Lu had been eighteen at the time, snarky and rude and immature and, most importantly, a student. But now, at twenty-eight, he'd changed in all the right ways and stayed the same where it counted and now, he could finally have him.

Without conscious control, his arms wrapped around Lu's waist, pinning them together. Lu was still fisting his hair, but his other hand cradled his jaw, his fingertips sparking something deeper, primal in him. Lu was taller than him now, Balthazar realized dizzily. Just by an inch or two, but still. When had that happened? He remembered being taller than Lu back when he was a student, but apparently the strawberry blond had kept growing.

He didn't remember breaking the kiss but one of them must have because the next thing he knew, he was blinking at Lu's eyes. "Want to pop into my flat for a bit?"

Lu grinned. "Thought you'd never ask."

It sure beat watching Netflix until he passed out.

The moment the front door to Balthazar's apartment closed behind them, they were kissing again, Lu's fingers digging into his jacket, pushing it from his shoulders. It was a relatively short stumble to the bedroom, filled with shed shirts and unbuttoned pants and hands sliding over skin. Maybe they were rushing things, but they'd waited long enough and now "too fast" didn't exist.

At least until Balthazar finally slid inside him. He heard and felt the hitch in Lu's breath, saw his head tip back and his eyes close, heard him groan, "Ohhhh..." and Balthazar stopped, thinking maybe he had gone too fast, maybe Lu hadn't been ready, maybe he'd hurt him. But before he could ask, Lu let out a high whine he formed into a "Yeah, come on...!" and Balthazar slowly withdrew almost completely before sliding back in, just as slowly, and Lu's elbows finally gave out; he fell back against the bed, wrapping one leg around Balthazar's waist.

All of their rushing had led to this, and Balthazar wanted to make sure it lasted. He knew, no matter what, it would be over too quickly, but after ten years of waiting, he figured he was entitled to prolong this, even if it was next to impossible for him to maintain his self-control. Lu was so fucking gorgeous, all spread out and wanting, and it was all Balthazar could do to not just give in and let go.

Later, after they'd burrowed under the duvet, Balthazar realized it was the first time in a long time he'd gone to sleep without dreading waking up in the morning. It seemed so unlikely that the snarky, spiky-haired boy in his Art History class ten years ago had grown into the snarky, sweet man curled up next to him, but he was grateful. He was grateful for the change. He was grateful for the years.

He supposed he should have also been grateful for Gabriel, but the little cretin had made his life a mess more often than not, so it was about time one of his stupid ideas actually worked. Throwing his arm around Lu's stomach, he made a mental note to call Gabriel first thing in the morning and either thank him or verbally punch him in the face.

I may or may not post another part to this...this was really intended to be a oneshot, so for the moment, I'm marking it complete.