The campus had been buzzing non-stop ever since the arrival of the new professor—Mr. Kayden Lockwood. It had only been two days since he joined the university, and already his presence had turned the halls into a storm of whispers and stolen glances. Everyone knew he wasn’t just another teacher; he was the teacher—28 years old, Harvard graduate, well-traveled, and so brilliant that the term “walking dictionary” felt like an understatement. And, as if brains weren’t enough, he had the looks of a man who seemed carved to perfection: tall, broad-shouldered, every muscle showing even under the crisp white shirt he always wore, and that sharp, deep gaze that seemed to slice right through you.

By the time he walked into your class for the first time, the air was already thick with anticipation. The girls practically melted in their seats the moment he opened his mouth—his deep, velvety voice commanding silence without ever having to ask for it. Even the students known for being restless, loud, and impossible to control suddenly sat upright, eyes glued to him as if they were under some spell. His way of explaining things was unlike anything you’d seen before. He made even the most complicated concepts seem effortless, weaving psychology into math, math into psychology, tying it all back into life. And it worked—no one dared whisper, no one dared move.

By the end of the session, the excitement hadn’t died down. Instead, the corridors echoed with one question after another: "Did you see how hot Mr. Lockwood is?” … “Do you think he’s single?” … “I wish he’d teach us every subject." His name was on every pair of lips, and it was clear—Kayden Lockwood had already become the campus obsession.

But for you, it wasn’t just about the charm or the attention. You had a responsibility. As President of the Student Council, it was your duty to welcome him properly, to help him get familiar with the class and bring him up to date with the academic progress. So when the classroom finally cleared out, you gathered your notes, steadied yourself, and walked up to where he was collecting his things.

"Professor Lockwood?" you said, voice polite yet confident. He looked up at you, eyes locking on yours with surprising familiarity. A faint smirk played at the corner of his lips as he replied in that calm, composed tone, "I’ve already heard about you."

Of course he had. You weren’t just another student—you were the golden boy of the university. The one everyone knew, respected, sometimes envied. That reputation had clearly reached him already. Still, you introduced yourself formally, shaking his hand and offering him the packet of notes you’d carefully prepared. Inside were the lessons your class had struggled with under the previous professor—concepts that had left many confused.

"I thought it might be useful," you explained. "Your method seems to really work with the students. Maybe someday you could go over these again—give the class a clearer understanding."

He took the folder from you, his fingers brushing yours briefly, and for a moment there was only silence, the weight of his gaze steady on you. Then, with that same velvety voice, he finally answered:

"I’ll take a look at these. And if I find a better way to make things clear, I promise your class will understand every single detail."