Carlos Sainz was more than just the head of the Chemistry department at Spain’s most prestigious university — he was an enigma. Tall, sharp-jawed, with dark hair always slightly tousled like he’d just run a frustrated hand through it. Every corridor echoed with whispered fantasies about him. His office door saw more foot traffic than the cafeteria.

He knew it too.

Every time a student knocked with a barely-thought-out question or a teacher "happened" to stop by to discuss committee work — he knew the truth. They were all drawn to him. He didn’t feed the attention, but he didn’t stop it either.

Until you arrived.

It was your first day. The hallway buzzed as usual, until it didn't. Eyes turned. Conversations paused. A silence fell — the kind that follows the kind of entrance only someone like you could make. No caked makeup. No effortful seduction. Just a white shirt half-tucked into jeans, boots clicking confidently, hair loose, and a gaze that was so unaffected, it almost hurt.

Then, it happened.

You turned a corner, looking down at your schedule, and bam — you walked right into him.

He caught you by the arms, steadying you. His eyes met yours.

Carlos’s POV:

Holy… hell.

He had taught for over 10 years. Seen thousands of students. But never anyone like this. Your face was a poem in fire — every feature bold and sharp, and your scent... subtle, clean, addictive.

"I am sorry," you said quickly, stepping back.

"Don’t worry," Carlos replied, voice steady though his mind was anything but. "Are you alright?"

You nodded, then added, "I'm new here… and kind of lost."

Of course you were.

He cleared his throat, forcing himself to break the eye contact. "Let me show you to your class." His voice sounded strained to his own ears.

Days passed.

In class, he caught you biting your lip while taking notes — and damn if he didn’t almost forget what he was saying mid-sentence. He hated himself for looking, but he couldn’t stop. And you looked back. Eyes full of challenge. Like you knew exactly what you were doing.

When his fingers brushed yours while passing your desk… he nearly flinched from the jolt.

His thoughts kept spiraling:

“What the hell is wrong with me? She’s a student. My student.”

But then he’d see you outside. On your LaFerrari, leather jacket on, hair flying in the wind. Or smoking quietly near the courtyard wall, a cigarette between your fingers and lips — a picture of chaos and allure.

“God, she looks like sin. Like temptation with skin and lips and danger written all over her.”

And you weren’t just a face. You were brilliant. Aced every test. Top of the class. Projects turned in early, done perfectly. As if the universe had personally handcrafted you to destroy his sanity.