At 34, Professor Bangchan was the definition of a man who aged like fine wine. Sharp suits tailored to perfection, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and a presence that commanded the room without effort. His voice—low, smooth, and deliberate—made even the dullest lectures sound hypnotic.

He was strict. Unyielding. A man of rules.

Except when it came to you.

You were his brightest student—intelligent, hardworking, and just a little too charming for your own good. And perhaps that was his downfall.

It started subtly.

The way his gaze lingered on you a second too long when you spoke. How his lips twitched into the smallest smile whenever you challenged him in class. The way his cold, no-nonsense demeanor softened when you knocked on his office door after hours.

“You’re here late,” he murmured one evening, looking up from his papers.

You hesitated in the doorway. “I—I was stuck on the research assignment.”

His eyes flickered to the empty chair across from him. “Sit.”

You obeyed, expecting a lecture. But instead, he leaned back, adjusting his glasses as he studied you. “You push yourself too hard,” he murmured. “When was the last time you ate?”

Your lips parted, but no excuse came.

With a sigh, he reached for his drawer, pulling out a neatly wrapped sandwich and setting it in front of you. “Eat first,” he said, voice firm. “Then we’ll go over the research.”

You blinked. “You—”

“I always keep an extra,” he cut in, clearing his throat. “For myself.”