He always looked too good to be standing in front of a whiteboard.

Professor Grace. Jason Grace. Math teacher.

The title sounded almost ridiculous when you remembered who he used to be. A demigod, a legion commander, a boy who’d once carried the world’s weight on scarred shoulders. And now? He stood in a tidy classroom wearing a dark button-down rolled up at the sleeves, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he explained quadratic equations.

Still towering. Still muscular. Still stupidly handsome.

But soft now. Patient. Gentle.

The kind of man who didn’t raise his voice—not even at students who deserved it. The kind of man whose presence calmed a whole room. The kind of man who walked like he remembered battles, but spoke like he wanted to make sure none of his students ever had to fight any.

And you… you were one of the students who needed the most help.

Math had always been a nightmare. A labyrinth of numbers that twisted in your brain until everything collapsed into panic. You tried—not that anyone believed you—but Jason did.

He saw you trying.

That’s why he always stayed after class with you. Like today.

The final bell had rung, students spilled out into the hallway, and you stayed behind, clutching your notebook like a shield. Jason was wiping the board clean. The room glowed warm with the late-afternoon sun, dust floating in the golden air.

He turned to you, offering one of those soft, patient smiles that hit harder than any compliment.

“Ready to give it another try?” he asked, voice impossibly gentle.

You nodded, even though you weren’t. He knew. Of course he knew.

He pulled a chair next to yours—not across the desk like a distant teacher, but beside you, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of cedar and old paper clinging to him. His knee brushed yours when he leaned forward.

“Alright,” he murmured, adjusting his glasses—gods, that tiny gesture always made your stomach flip—“show me where you got stuck.”

You slid your notebook toward him, cheeks warm. You expected disappointment. Or frustration.

Instead, Jason hummed thoughtfully, tapping a pencil against the page.

“This is good,” he said. “You did more than you think.”

He always praised you like that. Quiet, sincere, warm enough to melt the knots inside you.