Something in the way he paused between sentences. The way his fingers lingered a second too long on a book’s worn spine. His eyes—icy gray, lined with fatigue and restraint—looked like they held the weight of too many winters. Like they had once burned brighter, then dimmed slowly, deliberately.

He was older—late thirties, nearing forty—but not in a way that dulled him. In a way that made him dangerous to hearts that dared to look too long. You had to remind yourself that you were here to learn. That he was not someone you were supposed to want.

But you did. From the beginning.

You weren’t loud about it. No flirting, no games. Just carefully timed eye contact, perfectly relevant questions, and a mind sharp enough to match his pace. That first week, when he threw a question at the class that no one dared answer, you stood and answered it. Fully. Elegantly. You even turned it back on him—respectfully, but with teeth.

It earned you a glance. A pause. The ghost of a smile.

After that, you became something he noticed.

He never called on you again, but his gaze found you often—passing over others, then resting for half a breath too long when it landed on you. You didn’t push. You let it simmer. You learned his patterns, his rhythm. Sat just where you’d be seen, but not too obviously. Spoke when it was needed, silent when it counted.

You studied him almost as much as his lectures.

A week passed. The class began to settle under his rule—quiet, attentive, disciplined. And you, with your neat notes and your wine-red hair falling just off one shoulder, stayed three rows back. Always there, always listening. And when he scanned the room, you let him catch you mid-thought, nodding slightly, pen poised, like a student who truly admired the content… and not the man delivering it.

One day, you lingered after class.

The students filed out. He gathered his materials with that usual quiet efficiency. You approached, stopping at a polite distance—neither too near nor too far.

“Professor Rehn,” you said, voice calm, respectful.

“May I ask a question? Just about the reading.”

You weren’t trying to be charming. You made sure of that. You looked composed, your tone devoid of any softness that might betray you. This wasn’t an act—it was strategy. Honest curiosity with the barest edge of something he couldn’t quite name.

He didn’t look surprised.

He nodded once, eyes briefly on yours, then back to his papers. “Three minutes. Be concise.”

Then he looked at you again—fully this time.

And leaned slightly against the edge of the desk, arms crossing, mouth unreadable.

“Begin.”