Tugging off his jacket distractedly, Ozpin fumbled with the hook on the back of his bedroom door before finally allowing his coat to crumple to the ground—abandoning his façade of composure. Slamming the door in annoyance with his own preoccupation, he made his way to his writing desk and sat down in his chair with a sigh.

He had expected it. Of course he had. How could he not have expected it? This was Glynda, not one of his over-eager students with a complex love life and thirst for drama. This was Glynda, a distinctly unromantic woman for whom appearances meant everything. Loosening the scarf around his neck, Ozpin pulled out a sheet of paper and a fountain pen with fierce determination.

However, no sooner had he prepared the ingredients for a letter than he realized he had no idea what he wanted to say—or if he even wanted to say anything at all. She had made her feelings painfully clear on the matter, after all, so much so that Ozpin hardly knew how to respond. In the end, he hadn't been able to. He had simply pulled away from an apologetic kiss, whose brief and bitter taste still lingered in his mouth, and stormed back to the relative safety of his own room.

Dearest Miss Goodwitch,

The words had seemingly written themselves by the time Ozpin forced himself back to the present. Sighing heavily, and fidgeting with his scarf once more before tearing it off entirely and throwing it onto the floor (brooch and all), he tried to imagine where in the world this letter was going.

This was a matter that called for precision—and Ozpin's fingers were as tremulous as his thoughts, ill-suited to the delicacy required. It would be better to sleep on the matter, but he no more had the power to rest than to resurrect Summer Rose. He would be out of his wits by daybreak if he tried.

I apologize if what I said was untoward, but it is the truth as I see it, and I must beg you to forgive me. You are without doubt the most beautiful, most intelligent, strongest woman I could ever hope to have at my side in any sense.

Ozpin's pen hovered hesitantly over the paper before meeting it once more in a ferocious, passionate scribble. Expelling his feelings took precedence over legibility; whether or not Glynda would be able to read it hardly entered his head as he continued scrawling his emotions onto the innocent paper.

I never should have presumed to ask for your hand in marriage. I am genuinely sorry for assuming that you were ready for such a commitment. I misjudged your willingness to participate in our dalliance as true affection. But for what it's worth, I believe you're wrong.

He paused, frowning. That hadn't been what he had expected to write; Ozpin generally allowed Glynda to win their few arguments. However, his scowl was immediately replaced by a small and somewhat defeated smile. This would be the first time he had dared to fight back against her, and an inopportune time it was. Now that the ink was splattered on the page in that particular sentence, there was no taking it back. Ozpin would have to explain himself for once in his mistake-ridden life.

Appearances aren't everything, Glynda Goodwitch. They never have been. For a woman with such lovely eyes, you are seemingly blind to the fact that any rumors circulated about us might lose their sting if we married. Any encounter between us would instantly become explainable by our union, and people would quickly lose interest.

Ozpin's smile widened momentarily before he continued. He was sure, perhaps irrationally so, that he would be able to convince her. Though he hardly enjoyed arguing, hence why he tended to allow Glynda's point of view to triumph over his own, he was a formidable opponent when he was invested in victory.

If these inhibitions are truly the only ones keeping you from accepting my offer, then I hope you will reconsider. However, if you are simply uninterested in my suggestion, please say as much. You are too compassionate to trifle with my affections.

There was a brief pause; Ozpin hesitated for a moment, heartbeat increasing as a phrase drifted across his head—seldom exchanged but for moments filled with shivering kisses and wandering hands, when the only things on his over-active mind were heat and movement and breathlessness.

I love you. I love you more than I can say, or ever have said. Your presence in my life means more to me than that of anyone else.

Ozpin let out a long breath he hadn't realized he had been holding as the ethereal images of a thousand other faces, made its way unbidden into his head. He closed his eyes, bowing his head before the phantoms of his former loves helplessly and begging them silently to depart, lest they make a liar of him.

However, I will respect your decision to refuse me, and if you so wish, I will never communicate those words again.

It was too late: memories like a chilly breeze drifted forth of their sad, gentle smiles and the caress of their hands on his face… and, most of all, their tears whenever he had to leave. And he always had to leave. This was not the time for such remembrances, and he knew it. The events of this evening, the latest chapter in the tome of Ozpin's failures, was more than enough to make him feel inadequate without bringing his history into the matter.

I will forever be devoted to you. If there is anything you need, please do not hesitate to ask—and if you change your mind, I will be waiting for you.

Faithfully yours,

After signing his name, Ozpin dropped the pen, removed his tear-speckled spectacles, and buried his face in his hands. There was nothing more he could do, save pray to whatever gods might hear him that Glynda Goodwitch might change her mind for once in her life, and listen to her heart as well as his.

Ozpin debated getting something to drink, perhaps a bit stronger than his usual tea, but decided that making even more of a mess of himself was hardly the best solution when he did have to work tomorrow. But as he folded the letter, perhaps less neatly than usual, a matter-of-fact knock at his door startled him. Trembling, ignoring his somewhat unkempt appearance, he leapt up and opened the door before he could change his mind.

There stood Glynda, looking distinctly concerned, if a little blurry without his glasses. Pushing her way past Ozpin into his room, she ignored the letter he so feebly proffered, and glanced at the jacket and scarf lying crumpled on the ground. And then she turned her worried eyes to his with an obvious effort.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, searching his expression.

Ozpin raised his eyebrows and said nothing. How could he? Her words were always music to his ears, but here they sang a sad and solemn tune, and he would prefer not to make it a duet. Rather than speak, he merely handed her the letter, much more forcefully this time, and sat at his desk once more, waiting for her to read it and leave him to his thoughts.

He never expected, during the agonizing minute or so while Glynda read and processed his feelings, that she might decide to stay.

Ozpin's eyes flew wide open, a shiver making its way unprofessionally up and down his spine, as her fingers massaged his shoulders. For a moment, no words were exchanged between them; their only communication was her tender and rhythmic and wonderfully reassuring pressure. When had she circled around behind him? Were his senses grown so dull?

Belated hope blossomed in Ozpin's heart with burning suddenness, and he rose to his feet and turned to face Glynda. Scooting the chair out of the way, he waited—breath held—for her to say something, anything, to confirm her implications.

"You're right," she laughed, her behavior almost girlish as she dipped her head, and rocked back and forth on her feet with equally unusual awkwardness. "Why are you always right?"

Ozpin closed his eyes, brimming with unexpected joy and relief, and traced Glynda's jawline with a lazy hand. He'd always had all the time in the world, but now he feltit. Even if she didn't accept his proposal—even if things just stayed as they were now, as a clandestine affair—he would cherish every moment. Even more, now that she had forgiven him his forwardness.

"Glynda," said Ozpin, opening his eyes again to gaze down into hers, unable to suppress the tumultuous intensity of his emotions. "Whether you accept my offer or not, know that you mean the world to me." He said it in a desperate attempt to convey what he was sure he had not done in his letter, but Glynda merely rested a finger lightly on his lips, and replaced that gently silencing digit with her own mouth a moment later in a tender and lingering kiss.

"I was so startled at your proposal that I didn't even check with my heart before I used the excuses I always have," said Glynda once they pulled apart, eyes downcast, but her crestfallen expression quickly gave way to a radiant smile. "Of course I'll marry you, Professor Ozpin." Her arms remained around his neck, her tone teasing enough that Ozpin sighed in exaggerated exasperation. He'd told her many a time to call him by his ordinary name, but she'd never listened.

A fraction of a second later, a smile tugged at his lips, so sweetly redeemed by hers. He was about to sink to one knee and attempt to proclaim his love once more when Glynda—evidently sensing such an idea—smiled, shaking her head amusedly. "I've already accepted your offer. What is the earthly use of doing it all over again, when we could be doing something much more interesting?"

As she spoke, Glynda trailed a single hand down to the buttons on his vest, undoing them industriously, but did not trouble to continue her work. Instead, she backed up suggestively to sit on the edge of Ozpin's bed, legs crossed, to await his decision.

She didn't have to wait long. As Ozpin discarded his vest and knelt before her, this time to unlace her boots with amorous obedience, he couldn't help but think that marrying Glynda might make all his past failures worthwhile.