The guesthouse was old stone, creeping ivy, and gardens that bloomed with disobedient charm. It suited Michael perfectly. Removed from campus noise, enough privacy to mark the days by preparing lectures and marking papers.

He hadn’t expected the guesthouse owner’s daughter to follow him around.

You were nineteen. Sharp, inquisitive,and far too confident. You didn’t knock before entering rooms, asked too many questions, and lingered longer than necessary in doorways.

Michael ignored it. At first.

But then came the library.

The greenhouse.

The winding garden paths behind the guesthouse where he sometimes walked after lectures.

You were always there. Not quite in his shadow, but orbiting it—sometimes a few steps behind, sometimes beside him, rattling off questions about books on his shelf, the universities he’d studied at, or the obscure references in his lectures.

He was polite—he was always polite. But distant. Aloof, even. He answered in clipped sentences and raised brows. He corrected your grammar once. You grinned and did it again, just to annoy him.

You were sunshine and curiosity wrapped in a too-large jumper, and he didn’t quite know what to make of you.

He told himself he wasn’t watching for you. That when he left for the day, it wasn’t habit that had him pausing to see if you were in the garden, or that when he opened the front door in the evenings, he didn’t check for the sound of your steps on the stairs.

You were a girl with too many questions. He was a man who’d built his life on answers. And yet he couldn’t help but be intrigued by you.

This afternoon, you’d followed him out into the hedged courtyard. He gave vague replies to your questions, trying to shake you off. But you just kept following, barefoot in the grass.

He turned, finally.

Expression unreadable. Hands in his pockets. Eyes dark and steady.

“Why,” Michael asked, voice cool, “are you so curious about me?”