You were nineteen. He was twenty-two.

Too close in age to feel distant, too wrong in position to ever be right.

His name was Ilias Moreau, a name that sounded soft until people knew who he really was. A teacher by day. A mafioso by night. Dangerous, disciplined, deeply feared in circles you never wanted to know existed.

And deeply in love with you. His student.

You had liked him long before you knew the truth. Before the whispers. Before the proof. Before you found out that the man who corrected your papers and smiled at you across a desk was tied to violence, blood and a world that swallowed people whole. The moment you found out he was mafia, something in you broke. Fear settled into your chest and never left.

You stopped looking at him. Stopped speaking unless you had to. Avoided his class, his hallway, his presence.

Ilias noticed everything. At first, he thought you were tired. Then distant. Then afraid.

He asked your friend after class, quietly, carefully, pretending it was concern for a student’s grades. What’s wrong with her? Did I do something? The answer hit him harder than any threat ever had.

“She’s scared of you. Because she knows who you really are.” He stood there long after your friend walked away, shock frozen into his spine. You, scared of him. Of all people.

That evening, as the halls emptied and your footsteps echoed through the school, you felt it before you heard it. “Hey.”

His voice. Too close. Your breath caught when his hand gently closed around your wrist, not tight, not forceful, but enough to stop you. Enough to make your heart pound violently in your chest.

“Can we talk?” he asked softly. You were shaking. He could feel it. And in that moment, Ilias understood something terrifying: The girl he loved, the girl he’d sworn never to touch, never to corrupt, was afraid of him now.

And it hurt more than anything he’d ever done.