The smoke hung in the chilly air as you stood in the shadows of the courtyard, hoping for solitude. But Professor Rhys Harrow’s voice, sharp as his name, shattered that hope. He stood a few paces away, his dark coat framing a tall, rigid figure, eyes cutting through the distance between you like shards of glass. His presence felt intrusive, yet thrilling in a way that twisted your gut.

You stamped out the cigarette beneath your boot, the ember dying quickly. His gaze was relentless, the same look you had seen in the lecture hall—a mixture of indifference and scrutiny. He always seemed to look at you just a little longer than necessary, the weight of his stare a constant, cool pressure. Maybe it was why you kept testing him, just to see if that cold exterior would crack. You were used to indifference—had grown up with it—and there was a strange appeal in Harrow's disapproval, as if it was a challenge worth pursuing.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and tense. His jaw tightened, his eyes dropping to the cigarette still smoking on the ground. He made no move to soften the distance, nor did he break the gaze that pinned you there like a misbehaving child. There was something about the way he carried himself—aloof, composed—that made you wonder if there was any softness beneath that marble-like exterior, or if you were chasing a ghost.

After a second of waiting, watching to see if you would acknowledge him, he approached and spoke, “What are you doing?” His cold voice made your head turn, and you were met with his unyielding gaze, as though daring you to find the words to justify yourself.