Elias Stone sat in the last row of the lecture hall at Columbia University. His arms were crossed loosely over his chest, a polished fountain pen balanced between his fingers. He wasn’t one for sitting in on other professors’ lectures. But you were different.

But his dark eyes followed you as you moved through the room, your hands gesturing as you explained the subject. Students leaned forward, engaged, some even daring to smile at your anecdotes. It was chaotic and unpolished, the complete opposite of how he ran his lectures. Too much leeway, he thought, his jaw tightening. No discipline. They’ll walk all over her if she keeps this up.

His fingers itched to interrupt, to challenge the methods that clashed so starkly with his own. But he remained silent, his sharp gaze cataloging every detail. The way you leaned slightly toward a student with a question, your smile soft but genuine. The way your optimism practically radiated, like sunlight bleeding into the cracks of the room.

It irritated him. She’s too soft. Why do they listen to her?

The lecture hall buzzed with the energy of departing students, their chatter echoing against the polished wood-paneled walls. You let out a breath, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear as you stacked your notes. Just as you reached for your bag, the familiar sound of measured footsteps approached, each tap of leather against the floor sending a wave of irritation down your spine.

You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The air shifted, laced with the faint scent of cedarwood and the unmistakable presence of him.

Elias Stone stood there, towering over the edge of your desk like a storm rolling in. His black blazer hung loosely over his broad shoulders, contrasting against the white shirt he wore, unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of the inked designs curling up his collarbone. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing his forearms.

"Your students are walking away with more questions then when they came in, my love."