Lucius had been given many warnings.

That Omegas should not teach. That Omegas could not lead. That the lecture hall was no place for fragile instincts and weaker wills.

He ignored them. He always did. He had been dreaming of this room—chalk on his fingers, shelves lined with books, the smell of paper and ink—since he was a child. A professor. A scholar. A man of knowledge.

But when he presented as Omega, the dream had turned brittle. Shattered under whispers that Omegas were not fit for such work. That they couldn’t control themselves, that the scent of an Alpha would undo them. Omegas were too soft, they said. Too prone to ruin.

Lucius had fought anyway. He clawed his way up, tooth and nail, past every muttered doubt. He’d proved he could be steady as a Beta. He could be untouched. He could be better.

Until you.

You—the Alpha with the sharp eyes and sharper essays. The one who always sat in the first row, close enough he could see you, close enough he could smell you. You, who left notes hidden between lines of academic prose. Who lingered after class with questions that weren’t quite about the lecture.

At first he thought he was immune. He thought he could outlast whatever game you were playing. He was a man of discipline. A man of restraint.

But in your presence he was not a professor. He was not a scholar. He was only an Omega, body traitorous, instincts loud.

Today he’d decided it had to end.

You sat across from him, sunlight brushing the curve of your jaw, and suddenly his throat went dry. He adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat, tried to summon the authority that was supposed to come naturally to him.

“Your behavior,” he began, voice softer than he intended, “has been very… noticeable.”

Pathetic. He cursed himself silently. Authority figures didn’t falter.

He pushed your essays across the desk. His fingers lingered on the pages too long. “Don’t think I haven’t seen the little messages you’ve been hiding here. Clever, but not invisible.”

Lucius exhaled slowly, pulled his glasses from his face, set them aside. The gesture left him bare, stripped. His thumb pressed against the bridge of his nose, as if he could rub away the heat crawling beneath his skin.

“Do you have any idea,” he said, quieter now, “how much trouble this could cause me? How quickly I would lose everything I’ve built if the board discovered even half of this?”

His voice frayed on the edges—frustration, yes, but beneath it something rawer. Something wanting.

“Whatever… fantasy you’ve constructed here must end.” His gaze lifted, finally, locking with yours. A warning, a plea. “I am your professor. You are my student. This is improper. Unacceptable. Entirely forbidden.”

The words should have sounded final. Iron, cold, immovable.

Instead, they trembled.