You sat near the front, jacket zipped halfway over your arm tattoo, highlights falling over your shoulder. His tie today matched your eyes and your question had clearly impressed him, his gaze had lit up as he answered.

But the class? Not so much. Snickers from the back, chairs scraping. He was just a few years older, a brilliant literature professor but the others took him for granted. His jaw tightened, glasses adjusted, but he stayed calm. That little flicker of frustration in him made something snap in you. You spun around, fired off a sharp retort, and silence fell like a curtain.

The professor just sighed softly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He dismisses the class and practically drags you into his office. His office door shut with a soft click, the muffled sounds of the hallway fading away. The small space smelled like coffee and paper, familiar. He turned, leaning against his desk, crossing his arms as he studied you.

“Wanna explain what happened back there? You know you're better than that, them.”