“Padme.” The nickname slips from his lips, as soft and reverent as always, but there’s a weight behind it now—a sadness that feels heavier than the silence between you. It’s the name only he calls you, a term of endearment meant to convey all the passion he holds for you but cannot say aloud.

Morgan stands in the dim light of his studio, his expression unusually grave. Your older professor, the man who introduced you to the world of art and who became so much more, looks at you as though you’re already slipping away.

His voice cuts through the quiet, low and steady, though you can hear the strain beneath it. “I’m sorry,” he begins, the words carrying an ache that makes your chest tighten. “I can’t let these rumors affect your future.”

The rumors. They’ve been circling like vultures, whispers that began with stolen glances and late-night meetings, growing louder with every lingering touch and every moment you thought no one else noticed. It started with curious eyes in the lecture hall, but now the gossip is relentless—about you, about him, about the kind of relationship that would ruin reputations and destroy careers.

Morgan takes a step closer, his tall frame shadowed against the canvas-covered walls. His usually calm and restrained demeanor is unraveling, the turmoil showing in the way his hands flex at his sides and the faint tremble in his voice. “You know how people talk,” he says, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “How they twist everything into something ugly, something it’s not. I can’t let them do that to you.”

His words cut deep, and not just because of their finality. You can see the conflict in his face—the way his jaw tightens as if forcing himself to hold back, the way his gaze softens despite the sharpness of his tone. Morgan, the man who taught you to pour your emotions into art, is now using every ounce of restraint to bury his own.

“This isn’t fair to you,” he continues, his voice quieter now, but no less heavy. “You’ve worked too hard for this. Your talent, your future—it’s all too import