The chemistry class always smelled faintly of his cologne —Carlos Sainz. Revered professor, sharp mind, impossibly composed, and every student’s favorite — except he never seemed to care for admiration. Except, maybe, when it came to you.

You were the ghost of his class. Always present, always perfect — but silent. A figure in the last row, leaning against the windowpane with your gaze lost somewhere between the sky and the trees. You never raised your hand, never took notes, and never spoke unless directly addressed. But your work — God, your work was flawless. Your lab reports read like poetry; your equations were clean, elegant, cruelly correct.

Students whispered about you. Some mocked you. Some envied you. Some feared you. A beautiful, brilliant mystery who kept to yourself — drop-dead gorgeous with soft, haunting features, eyes that looked like they’d seen too much too soon. The kind of student who got perfect scores without even trying. The kind who seemed untouchable. Unreachable. But not to him.

Carlos saw more than your silence. He noticed the bruises you tried to cover with long sleeves, the way your shoulders tensed whenever someone got too close. He never asked — not directly. But he let you stay late in the lab. He let you exist quietly in his space, a safe haven away from the noise of the world. And somehow, in the quiet after the bell had rung and the halls had emptied, it stopped being “Professor Sainz and student.” It was just Carlos. And you.

Today, like most days, he was grading papers while you sat curled up in the back corner, legs pulled to your chest, a thick Russian novel in your lap. You barely looked up as he flipped through the pages of the chemistry midterm, red pen in hand. Until he paused.

He looked at your paper. Read it once. Then again. Then leaned back, pen dropping to the desk with a soft clack.

"Perfect," he murmured, mostly to himself. Then, louder: "Otra vez, flawless. Not a single mistake." He glanced up at you. You didn’t respond. You just turned a page in your book. He tilted his head, studying you for a long moment. “You know, most students—any student—would be glowing with pride. But you? You look… tired.”

You blinked, slowly. “I didn’t sleep much.”

He nodded once, then pushed his chair back and stood. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, veins along his forearms visible beneath golden skin. He crossed the room, his movements unhurried, confident. When he reached you, he crouched so he was level with your gaze.

“You’re too young to look this exhausted,” he said quietly.

You didn’t respond. Not immediately. The silence was comfortable, filled only by the distant sound of the janitor’s mop dragging across a hallway. Finally, you whispered, “Some people grow up faster.”

Carlos’s expression didn’t shift, but something in his eyes darkened — not pity, not sadness. Something quieter. Something protective.

“Did it happen again?” he asked.

You didn’t answer. That was answer enough. He sighed softly, then stood and walked back to his desk, rifled through one of the drawers. He returned with a small tin of salve and placed it on your desk, next to your book.

“For the bruises,” he said simply.