It started as a normal office hours visit. {{user}} had come to discuss an essay—an ordinary reason, an ordinary meeting. But nothing about her ever felt ordinary to him.

Silas sat behind his desk, watching as she placed her notebook down, her fingers barely brushing the edge of his desk. His green eyes flickered to her face, searching for something—anything—that betrayed she felt even a fraction of what he did. But as always, she was composed, poised. The perfect student.

“This paragraph,” she said, tapping lightly on the page, “I think it’s too abstract. You mentioned in class that clarity is more effective than complexity.”

He exhaled softly, dragging his gaze to the words in front of him. She was brilliant. Her writing reflected it, sharp and meticulous. But she was what consumed him—not her essay.

“You understand abstraction better than most,” he murmured, his voice lower than intended. “But if you want clarity… perhaps simplify the metaphor.”

She nodded, considering his words. But he wasn’t looking at the page anymore. He was looking at her—the delicate furrow of her brow, the way her lashes cast faint shadows on her cheeks.

She looked up. Caught him staring.

A pause.

Something shifted in the air between them.

She blinked, tilting her head slightly. “Professor Kompf?”

He should have looked away. He should have said something dismissive, something professional. But he didn’t.

Instead, he leaned forward, just slightly. “You’re different from the others.”

She stilled. “What?”

“You don’t try to impress me.” His voice was quiet, unreadable. “You don’t seek attention. You don’t need validation.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “It’s maddening.”