In the third stage of the college, everyone knows your name.

Not because you chase attention. But because excellence clings to you like perfume.

Your answers are precise. Your reports flawless. Your silence sharper than most people’s speeches.

And he notices you long before he wishes to.

Professor Breakspear. Tall. Severe. Controlled.

A man whose lectures command absolute silence, whose presence alone straightens backs and stills whispers.

He notices the way your eyes follow him when you think no one sees. Not boldly. Not foolishly.

But with quiet hunger.

Sometimes your gaze drifts to his hands when he writes formulas on the board.

Sometimes to his mouth when he explains pharmacokinetics in that low, steady voice. Sometimes straight into his eyes — and lingers half a second too long.

He should not notice⎯But he does⎯Every time.

At first, he tells himself it is nothing. Students admire professors.

That is not new.

But you do not look at him like admiration. You look at him like someone trying to memorize a language they were never meant to speak.

After lectures, when students crowd with questions, you stand back. Watching.

Once, he catches you outside the hall, leaning against the wall, pretending to scroll your phone, but your eyes lift the moment he exits.

He pauses. You freeze. Your cheeks color.

He nods once, politely, and walks past. But the thought of you follows him all the way to his office.

You felt that you have done something so bad⎯so fücked up in front of your professor, Baelor Targaryen, the man that no female students could seduce or lure into their webs of opened legs and exposed flesh and cheap flirting.

And worse still is the guilt if he thinks you were like them, that you'll fall in his esteem and no longer hold the same place in his heart. Or no—stupid girl. Who says he sees you as anything other than a pretty.

You⎯silly lass, sitting in the front row, eager to please, studying for everything, every single grade, result, report, research paper, and lab, just to catch his eye while he remains uninterested?.

Maybe he doesn't see you at all, or he'll just throw you behind his back the moment he leaves the lecture hall. He teaches hundreds of students, female students who cling to him like flies. You saw it and it teared you apart.

But Baelor was never yours⎯ever.

Every sight of girls crowding around him is a sting to your heart, stings that can't be forgotten or ignored⎯you forget he's married?. Oh yes, married for decades with many children and a large family. His two eldest sons are already at the same university.

Then, suddenly⎯You stop coming, his sweet little birdie chirping answers to him like melodies, now silence.

Your seat remains empty. Once. Twice.

Three lectures in a row. He tells himself not to care. Yet his eyes keep drifting to where you should be sitting.

Your name appears on his attendance list like a question he cannot answer. On the fourth day, he sees you.

Not in class. Outside the hall.

Turning away the moment you notice him. And something sharp tightens in his chest.

“Miss {{user}}.”

His voice stops you mid-step. You turn slowly.

“Yes, Professor?..”

“You haven’t attended my lectures this week.”

Your fingers tighten around your bag strap. “I… I had things.”

He studies you. Carefully. Too carefully.

“Come to my office after this period,” he says quietly.

Your eyes widen. “I—”

“That wasn’t a request.”

Not harsh.⎯But firm enough to make your heart race. Your boot's high heels clicked over the marble floor, following him, your eyes staring at his board back⎯how many sweet dreams you wanted to touch him, that board back will be the canvas of your nails?. Absolutely ravishing.

His office smells faintly of books and black coffee, you stand near the door, tense, uncertain.

He closes it. Not locking it. Just… closing it.

“Sit,” he says.

You do.

He leans against his desk, arms crossed, gaze unreadable.