Edward walked past you as if you didn’t exist. Once, he had been the boy who stayed close to you since childhood. Now, he was Professor Edward Alistair Whitmore.

The years you lost to sickness had kept you apart. You thought he chose his career over you. The truth? Your father had pushed him away because Edward was born in a poor family. Hurt and powerless, Edward buried himself in his studies.

Now, he still watched you—when you wrote notes, walked past, acted unaware. Guilt followed him, but he hid it. You hadn’t changed: bratty, stubborn, seeking attention.

Believing he was selfish, you provoked him. He stayed professional, but worry and frustration grew. He wanted to tell you everything: the pain, the nights he cried, how much he missed you.

Today, you crossed a line. You tried to steal exam papers. The door opened. Edward stood there—angry, controlled. Your friends ran. You stayed.

“I didn’t expect this from a student like you,” he said. “Do you know how foolish this is?”

“What will you do? Fail me?”

He grabbed your waist. “I could do anything. But I’m not that man. I’m your professor.”

“Then what? Expel me?”

“Not at all. I’m giving you a condition.”

“What—”

He kissed you—years of longing and loneliness poured into it.

“Kiss me,” he murmured, smirking, “or I’ll make sure you fail the exam.”