The cadaver’s skin was cool and waxy beneath Adrien’s gloved fingers, the sterile scent of formaldehyde sharp in the air. He made a precise incision along the marked line, his movements economical, practiced. Every cut was deliberate; every glance at the anatomical chart confirmed his understanding. He despised disorder, and anatomy was the one place where everything could—should—be perfect. Structure. Clarity. Control.

Across the steel table, Anya Volkov rummaged through her bag, the rustle of papers and clatter of instruments grating against his concentration. “Ah, here it is,” she announced, pulling out a slightly crumpled handout, a stray pen tumbling to the floor. She didn’t bother to pick it up. Instead, she flashed him a quick, unapologetic smile. “You don’t mind if I just… catch up, do you? I was reviewing the nervous system last night and got a little sidetracked.”

Adrien didn’t look up from his work. “The brachial plexus is not something one ‘catches up’ on in five minutes, Volkov. It requires focus.” His voice was low, a steady cadence meant to convey disapproval without raising his voice. He could feel her gaze on him, a palpable weight.

“Relax, Moreau. It’s all connected anyway. Nerves, desires… it’s a beautiful mess.” She leaned forward, her gloved hand brushing against his as she reached for a scalpel. A jolt, unexpected and unwelcome, shot up his arm. Her touch was warm even through the latex. “See? Even you react.” Her tone was light, teasing, but her eyes held a challenge.

He withdrew his hand as if burned. “This is a dissection lab, not a philosophy seminar. We have a schedule to keep.” He gestured to the pristine, color-coded timetable laid out beside his notebook. “If you’re unable to maintain the pace, perhaps you should request a different partner.”

Anya’s laugh was a rich, throaty sound that seemed to vibrate in the cold room. “And miss all this thrilling company? Never.” She finally picked up her own scalpel, her movements less precise than his but fluid, almost dance-like. “Fine. Let’s schedule our first official session. Since you’re so fond of schedules. Tomorrow? Seven PM? I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.” The way she said ‘best behavior’ suggested anything but.

Later, in the cavernous lecture hall, Adrien sat in his usual seat—third row center, optimal for seeing and hearing. His pen moved in swift, clean strokes, filling the margins of his notebook with dense, organized script. The professor’s voice was a steady drone about osteological landmarks, and Adrien found a familiar comfort in the rhythm of note-taking. His world was defined by these boundaries.

The door at the back of the hall creaked open, interrupting the monotony. A burst of whispered laughter preceded her entrance. Anya slipped inside, a splash of color in a sea of grey and black. She wore a deep crimson scarf, and her boots made a soft, confident click on the terrazzo floor as she made her way down the aisle. All eyes, including the professor’s, flickered toward her. She didn’t seem to notice, or more likely, she didn’t care.

She slid into a seat a few rows behind Adrien, and he caught the faint scent of her perfume—something warm and spicy, like cinnamon and night-blooming flowers. It was utterly out of place here. He heard her lean over to the student next to her, a young man whose notes were suddenly forgotten. “Sorry I’m late,” she murmured, her voice a conspiratorial whisper that carried. “Got caught up in a… fascinating discussion about the iliac crest.” A soft, flirtatious laugh followed. The young man stammered a reply.

Adrien’s jaw tightened. He kept his eyes fixed forward, on the projected image of a scapula, but his focus had shattered. He could picture her perfectly without turning: the amused curve of her mouth, the way her eyes would crinkle at the corners, the effortless way she commanded the space around her. It was undisciplined. Distracting. He forced his attention back to his notes, underlining ‘supraorbital foramen’ with a line so firm it nearly tore the paper. She was a disruption, a variable he hadn’t accounted for, and he disliked variables intensely. Yet, a part of him, a part he refused to acknowledge, was already counting the hours until seven o’clock.

He arrived at the lab precisely at 6:58 PM, the metallic click of the door echoing in the silent, chilled air. His kit was arranged neatly on his designated counter, tools sterilized and laid out in order of use. The cadaver lay waiting beneath its sheet, a silent partner in their education. At exactly 7:00, the door swung open and Anya entered, her presence seeming to displace the cold air with a wave of warmth. She wasn’t late, but she wasn’t alone—she carried two paper cups of steaming coffee and a paper bag that smelled faintly of butter and almonds.

“I come bearing gifts,” she said, her voice softer than it had been in the lecture hall. She set one cup near his immaculate workspace. “A peace offering. Black, no sugar. I observed.”

He stared at the cup, then at her. Her hair was pulled back into a messy but effective bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She wore a simple black sweater that clung to her curves, and her expression was more serious than he’d seen it before. “This is a sterile environment,” he said flatly, though his eyes lingered on the coffee.

“The coffee stays on the counter. We stay gloved. The rules remain unbroken, Moreau.” She took a sip from her own cup, her gaze steady over the rim. “Shall we begin? I actually did review the brachial plexus.”

They worked for an hour in a silence that was less hostile than before, punctuated only by his quiet directives and her occasional, surprisingly insightful questions. Her focus was different from his—less about precision for its own sake, more about understanding connection, function, flow. She traced the pathways of nerves with her probe not as lines on a chart, but as living rivers of sensation.

“It’s incredible,” she murmured at one point, her voice full of genuine awe as she exposed a network of delicate fibers. “All this… potential for feeling. For pleasure and pain.” Her gloved finger hovered over the tissue. “It makes our own bodies feel so… alive by contrast.”

Adrien found himself watching her hands instead of the cadaver. The confident yet gentle way she handled the scalpel, the slight tremor of concentration he could see even through the latex. He realized with a start that he had stopped mentally critiquing her technique and was simply observing *her*. The sharp intelligence in her eyes, the way she bit her lower lip when concentrating.

When their hands brushed again as they both reached for a retractor, neither of them pulled away immediately. The contact lingered for a second too long—a silent acknowledgment that something had shifted in the cold room.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said quietly, breaking their long silence.

She looked up from their work, a slow smile playing on her lips. “And what did you expect?”

“A distraction.”

“And now?”

He hesitated, searching for the right word in his meticulously ordered mind. “A complication.”

Her smile widened into something warmer, more genuine. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She straightened up and stretched her back with a soft groan that was entirely too human for their surroundings. The movement pulled her sweater taut across her chest, outlining the swell of her breasts.

Adrien’s mouth went dry.

Without thinking—a rare and terrifying lapse in his self-control—he reached out and caught a stray strand of hair that had fallen across her cheekbone. He tucked it gently behind her ear, his gloved fingers grazing the shell of it.

The air between them crackled.

Anya went utterly still except for the rapid flutter of pulse at the base of her throat.

Her eyes widened slightly,

darkened.

She didn't pull away.

She leaned into

the touch,

just

fractionally.

The scent

of

her

perfume—

cinnamon

and night-blooming flowers—

wrapped around him,

intoxicating.

"Adrien," she breathed,

his name

a whisper

in

the sterile silence.

It was

the first time

she'd used it.

That single word shattered

the last

of his restraint.

In one fluid motion,

he peeled off his glove,

his bare fingers—

warm,

slightly trembling—

cupping

her jaw.

Her skin was impossibly soft,

and she let out

a shaky exhale,

her lips parting.

He closed

the distance between them.

His mouth met hers,

not with tentative exploration but with sudden,

hungry certainty.

It wasn't gentle;

it was raw need unleashed—a dam breaking after years of meticulous control.

Her lips were warm and tasted faintly of coffee and sweetness.

She responded instantly,

her own gloved hands coming up to clutch at his lab coat,

pulling him closer until their bodies pressed together from chest to thigh.

The cold steel table dug into his hip,a sharp contrast to

the heat flooding through him.He groaned into

her mouth,

his tongue sweeping past

her lips to tangle with hers.She met

him thrust for thrust,

a low,

guttural sound vibrating

in

her throat.It was messy,

desperate;

the careful order

of

his world dissolving into

this—

into

her.Her fingers scrabbled at

the buttons

of

his coat,pushing it off

his shoulders until it fell to

the floor with

a soft whump.She broke

the kiss,

her breath coming in ragged pants,

and tugged

at

the hem

of

Clone of Anatomy of Desire