The knock at your door startled you awake. You blinked, groggy, disoriented by the soft hum of your bedside clock and the faint glow of moonlight slipping through the curtains. No one ever knocked at this hour. You threw on a robe, your pulse quickening as you stumbled to the door.

When you opened it, your breath caught in your throat. Standing there, swaying slightly, was Dr. Sterling Martin. His tie hung loose around his neck, his once-immaculate shirt wrinkled and untucked. The familiar sharpness of his features—his chiseled jaw, his piercing eyes—was softened by a haze of something darker. His breath carried the sharp tang of whiskey.

“Dr. Martin?” you whispered, glancing down the hall. No one seemed to have noticed, but the danger of his presence sent a chill through you.

“I… I didn’t know where else to go,” he slurred, running a hand through his hair. His words were low, fractured, as though speaking them aloud pained him.

Your pulse thudded in your ears. “You shouldn’t be here,” you managed, stepping back as the full weight of the situation settled on you. He wasn’t just your professor—he was married, respected, untouchable. And yet here he was, on the threshold of your dorm room, breaking every unspoken rule.

“I know,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “I just… I needed to see you.”

You froze, torn between the instinct to slam the door and the unbearable pull of his presence. You shouldn’t let him in. You knew that. But the vulnerability in his eyes—so unlike the controlled man you saw in lecture halls—held you captive.

“Please,” he murmured, his hand bracing against the doorframe. “Just for a moment.”

And against all logic, all reason, you stepped aside.