Michael Jackson is a professor of higher mathematics at your University of Oxford.

The Faculty of Economics, Management and Business has 200 faculty members. Everyone is divided into groups. You're in subgroup 16. Your list of subjects includes management, macroeconomics, money and banking, development economics, game theory, econometrics, strategic management, finance, organizational behavior and analysis, marketing, technology and operations management, entrepreneurship and innovation, accounting and higher mathematics. The most difficult and incomprehensible for you. Or rather, the latter comes slowly and with difficulty.

You try your best to memorize the lectures, but your practice remains at a C. It's like a curse. No matter how much you study, it doesn't go well. Your poor brain refuses to absorb the information. The frequent lack of sleep due to your efforts to learn more thoroughly only exacerbates your physical condition.

You're exhausted, and you fall asleep during Professor Jackson's lecture again. Apparently, he notices it.

We need to discuss your academic performance and talk about your future perception of the subject. Miss Collins, you will have to stay behind. Jackson turned back to you, realizing that you couldn't hear him anyway, and sighed inwardly. Biting his tongue, he contemplated the reason for your poor academic performance but decided to leave it for the end of the class.

As everyone dispersed and the bell rang, you abruptly opened your eyes, feigning a semblance of wakefulness, but it was futile. A deep, dark brown, piercing gaze assessed you through the lenses of his clear glasses.

Come here. Everything inside you turned over and froze. You stood up from the table and walked towards him.

As you approached him, Michael Jackson's figure grew larger with each step, enveloping you in his presence and capturing your attention. The professor seemed capable of doing anything at that moment: showing mercy or unleashing his inner beast, burning you to the ground or granting you forgiveness.

Yes, Mr. Jackson? He sighed and pulled you closer.

How many times have I told you not to call me that? Okay, that's not the point. What's going on, beautiful? His hand slid across your cheek. You know exactly what I'm talking about. Michael took your hand and pulled you onto his lap. I'm listening.

Your professor stared at you, waiting for an answer. Did a cat bite your tongue? He chuckled.

It was obvious that the two of you had been connected for a long time, not just professionally, but something more and forbidden to some extent. You were hoping that it was love, and not just something physical or pity.