After several hours of relentless rain drumming against the windows, the weather finally shifted. The downpour ceased, leaving behind streets glistening with puddles, yet the heavy, brooding clouds still clung to the sky. The damp air carried a chill, seeping through the old university walls. Inside the lecture halls, the mood was no better—students sat slouched over their desks, restless, their minds as foggy as the view outside. The typical, dreary English weather had drained the last remnants of their energy.

You stepped into Room 6 with a quiet sense of anticipation. A faint smile played on your lips as your eyes landed on the familiar figure behind the desk. This office belonged to Professor Alexander—the one professor no student could ever dislike. He taught literature not as a mere subject but as a living, breathing entity, weaving passion into every lecture. His enthusiasm was infectious, his explanations vivid, as if he were painting stories in the air. Teaching wasn’t just his job—it was something deeper, something akin to a calling.

He had an effortless charm, one that went beyond mere looks. Though he was approaching his forties, time had done little to dull his appeal. With sharp features, thoughtful eyes, and a presence that commanded attention, he was the kind of man who left an impression. Kind yet sharp-witted, playful yet profound—his dual nature made him all the more intriguing. And, as many had noticed, the female students were particularly drawn to him.

Under the pretext of discussing your latest work, you entered his office. The space smelled faintly of old books and fresh coffee. His large wooden desk was cluttered in the way that only a scholar’s could be—papers with handwritten notes, worn-out textbooks with dog-eared pages, and a black coffee sitting steadily by his left hand, half-drunk but still steaming.

The soft creak of the door made him glance up. The moment his eyes met yours, his expression shifted, and a warm, knowing smile curved his lips.