Enjolras opened the door to his office and saw a girl sitting in there. For a second he wondered how she got in, but, seeing the slightly ajar window, he focused instead on the dark-haired, rain-soaked girl sitting with her back facing him, knees tucked under her chin.

He coughed, to warn her that he's there. But she didn't hear or she's not focused on her surroundings; he walked around the desk, putting his manly - very manly - satchel down, and she jumped, dark eyes surprised.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I was trying to avoid my ex and I saw the window open and it was raining, so I climbed in and shut it - well, I tried, but it wouldn't clasp. I thought your books might be getting wet, but I checked and they didn't. So I sat down for a second before heading off to dinner, mostly so Montparnasse would go away, but now I'm still here..." She looked out the window into the dark courtyard, "...and it looks like it's been a while. Anyway, I'm really sorry."

The girl exhaled, settling back into her chair. Enjolras had only been a professor for a few years but had - since Day One - always tried his best to be very formal and distant with his students. He was only twenty-eight but he didn't date - he worked and spent time with his friends - and he most certainly was not nice to students who cornered him in his office at night.

Looking at the girl in front of him and making a quick - probably regrettable - decision, he pulled a towel and a blanket out of the cupboard by the door and offered them to her with a small smile.

"Thanks. I'm Éponine," she said, towelling off her hair.

"Enjolras," he choked out. Enjolras? Shouldn't he tell her to call him Professor or something? Anything but his name! It was so... casual.

He was pulled from his mental anguish by altogether different thoughts about Éponine as she pulled off her large sweatshirt, exposing a tight, black, cleavage-bearing t-shirt and a pale strip of skin above the waistband of her jeans. Enjolras busied himself with shutting the window. The clasp was a bitch, she was right. He should move the book case just in case water did get in next time, he told himself.

By the time he turned around, she was wrapped in the thick wool blanket, ensconced back in the chair. He sunk into his own. She was rather pretty, he realised; she was petite, her eyes were framed with thick lashes and her lips were pink and plump and would be nice to bite down on...

"So what do you teach?

"Hmmm?" Enjolras rubbed his eyes, "Sorry, what?"

"What do you teach?"

"History. Renaissance Italy, mostly, but the French Revolution interests me, too."

Éponine sat upright at the word 'Italy', and he shot her a questioning look.

"I'm in your third year lecture! That's why you looked familiar. I thought I had probably just seen you around campus, but this is hilarious. Of all the offices... what a coincidence," she chuckled, almost muttering to herself in the end.

"So am I a good professor?" He asked in a low voice, one eyebrow raised. Was he flirting? No. Not flirting. Stop it, Enjolras, she's just a kid.

"Oh, you're alright, I suppose." Éponine's seriousness was betrayed by a quirk of the lips.

"Am I?"

"No, you're my favourite class, actually."

He was her favourite class? Shouldn't he just be her favourite professor? But he just smirked, happy. He was glad, as much as he loved the subject and teaching it, genuine feedback was nice to have.

She stood, dropping the blanket onto a chair, "I should be going..."

Éponine bent over to pick up her bag. Oh my god, thought Enjolras, staring unceremoniously at her breasts. He wanted to... no. He did not want to even think about that. He needed to go to a bar with his friends and get laid. Soon, very soon.

"Right... well, er, nice to meet you."

"Yeah, see you around Professor. Oh, sorry, I mean Enjolras," she smirked, ducking out the door and shutting it behind her.

Were all girls that Éponine? No, they weren't. His friends' girlfriends were okay.. but not at all like her. he wanted, needed to see her again.

He was in trouble.

He was in big trouble.