His office smells faintly of books and black coffee.
You stand near the door, tense, uncertain. He closes it. Not locking it. Just… closing it.
“Sit,” he says.
You do. He leans against his desk, arms crossed, gaze unreadable.
“You are one of my highest-performing students,” he begins. “You do not miss classes without reason.” You stare at your hands.
“I didn’t want to be distracting.”
His brow tightens.
“Distracting to whom?.”
Your voice comes out barely above a whisper. “To you.”
Silence falls. Thick. Heavy.
He exhales slowly.
“I noticed you watching me,” he admits. “But that is not a crime. It is not worth sabotaging your education.” Your eyes lift, shining.
“I didn’t mean to. I just— it happens.” His gaze softens despite himself. And that softness frightens him. Because it feels too much like tenderness.
After that day, you return to class. But things are worse now. Because now you are aware that he notices. Every glance feels dangerous. Every moment of eye contact unbearable.
He starts watching you too. Not openly.
But when you answer questions. When you take notes. When you look tired. And the restraint becomes torture.
Once, he hears other students whispering about you. How beautiful you are. How brilliant. How unreachable.
Jealousy — sharp and unwanted — stabs through him.⎯He hates it.⎯Hates himself for it.
It happens after an exam. You remain seated long after everyone leaves. He approaches slowly.
“Are you all right?.”
Your composure finally cracks.
“I’m tired of pretending I don’t feel anything,” you whisper.
He freezes.
“That is not something you should say to me.”
“I know,” you reply softly. “That’s why I’ve been avoiding you.”
His jaw tightens. “And you think hurting yourself academically is the solution?.”
“I think I needed space from you,” you confess.
“Because every time you look at me, I forget how to breathe.”
The room feels suddenly too small. He takes a step back.
“This cannot happen,” he says quietly.
“I know.” Your eyes meet.⎯But knowing does not stop the ache.
One evening, you pass the professors’ corridor by mistake. You see him through his office door, reading.
He looks up. Your steps slow. He stands.
“Come in,” he says before he can stop himself.
You do. You talk about nothing.
Assignments. Future internships⎯But the air between you is unbearable.⎯When you stand to leave, he speaks your name.
You turn. He is close. Too close.
His hand lifts — stops just short of touching your cheek. His voice is low.
“If you were not my student…” Your breath trembles. “If I were not your professor…”
The rest remains unspoken. And that restraint is more powerful than any kiss. He lowers his hand.
“You should go.”
You do. With your heart in ruins.
**
Two years passed, you stopped being the one who's staring, listening, wanting his eyes on you.
You learned to let go, no matter it hurts, because you can't take a man drained with a wife from his youth and large family of children.
You lived through those two years, laughed, cried, danced, watched, you moved to see more people, more places, more things, and it's stopped.
Baelor doesn't matter like before, the wound closed, leaving a scars where it was shedding itself.
Time passes.⎯You graduate with honors. Top of your class.⎯On the day you collect your certificate, he watches you from the back of the hall.
No longer allowed to intervene. No longer responsible for your discipline. Only for his own.
Later, in the courtyard, he approaches you. Not as professor. But as a man.
“You were extraordinary,” he says quietly. “So were you,” you reply. Silence stretches — but this time, it is not forbidden.
“May I take you to dinner?.” he asks.
No authority. No command.
Only hope⎯a small hope he crushed two years ago when you came to his office, because what a life will be waiting for you when you're with a married man with children, two sons older than you, let alone the rest, a man like him, Baelor Targaryen, galas and all his life as well-known man.
It's gambling, and you'll always lose when you luck clash against the fate.