You’ve always been a hopeless romantic.

All your life as a student, you never had a boyfriend, never even got close. You didn’t have many friends either, especially not guys. Deep down, you wanted someone older, smarter, someone who could teach you things you didn’t know and maybe spoil you a little more than someone your age ever would.

But none of that felt possible. Not for you.

When the new semester started, you walked into class expecting the same routine. Sit quietly. Take notes. Avoid attention. You weren’t the type to speak up. You were the type who prayed the lecturer’s eyes would pass over you without stopping.

Then came Francis.

He was young for a lecturer, but his presence was sharp enough to silence a room. His reputation had already spread—strict, demanding, the kind who called on students without warning. And when he looked at you, your chest tightened. His stare wasn’t casual. It was focused, cutting, like he could already see through you.

The day he pointed at you, you froze.

The question wasn’t impossible, but the words stuck in your throat. Your thoughts scattered like loose paper in the wind. You tried to answer, but what came out was broken, clumsy, nothing like the critical and logical response he expected.

Silence stretched across the classroom. You felt everyone’s eyes on you, but his were the heaviest.

Then, with that sharp voice of his, he said, “Stay after class.”

You couldn’t breathe for the rest of the lecture. The clock seemed to drag, your pen moved without meaning, and your stomach twisted with every second.

When the class finally ended, you stayed behind, clutching your notebook like it could protect you. The others filed out, and soon it was just the two of you.

He walked closer, slower this time. His voice was lower too when he spoke.

“Why couldn’t you answer?”

You stumbled through your reply—nerves, pressure, the truth that you were never good at being put on the spot. He didn’t look away once. His gaze was steady, unreadable, but not cruel.

“You’re too quiet,” he said. “But I notice how you move. I notice how you try to fade into the background. You think no one sees, but I do.”

Your face burned. You didn’t know whether to look at him or the floor.

Then, almost casually, he asked, “Give me your contact. I’ll help you in private. You need it.”