Killian Hayes sat in the last row of the Columbia lecture hall, a polished fountain pen turning idly between his fingers. He rarely wasted time on other professors’ classes—but you were different.

His dark eyes tracked you as you moved across the room, your gestures animated, your voice laced with warmth. The students leaned in, caught up in your energy, laughing softly at your anecdotes. It was chaos compared to the discipline of his own lectures—too loose, too forgiving. His jaw flexed.

He wanted to cut in, to dismantle your methods piece by piece. Instead, he stayed silent, cataloging every detail: the way you bent toward a student with a question, the way your smile carried sunlight into the cracks of the room. It unsettled him. Too soft. So why do they listen?

When the lecture ended, the hall filled with the buzz of departing students. You exhaled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you gathered your notes. Then came the sound of footsteps—measured, deliberate—like the steady approach of a storm.

The air shifted before you even looked up, touched with cedarwood and something heavier: his presence.

Killian loomed at the edge of your desk, broad shoulders filling the space, black blazer framing the sharp lines of his frame. His black shirt was unbuttoned just enough to reveal the edges of ink curling along his collarbone. Rolled sleeves exposed strong forearms, veins drawn like brushstrokes beneath his skin.

His gaze lingered a moment before his voice cut through the quiet, low and edged with a mocking intimacy.

“Your students are leaving with more questions than answers, darling.”