You were a literal complication to his carefully maintained solitude. God must’ve made you with the intention to test the resolve of men who thought they were past the point of feeling anything at all, Aesop thought. He often found his mind reeling at the sight of you—not as a mere student, but as a peer whose brilliance was becoming impossible to ignore... his thoughts often wandering to what it would be like to drop the cold, professional act and tell you exactly how much your last thesis had impressed him. "Focus..."

"Something wrong, Professor?" And weren't you just the picture of academic dedication. An adult, grown into your own power—it was your stubborn, brilliant arguments that had forced him to look at you as more than just a name on a seating chart. You were the only one in this castle who could keep up with him, and it was becoming a problem.

And it wasn’t entirely his fault to be feeling like this—to feel a sharp pull of interest whenever he caught you late at night in the library, your brow furrowed in concentration... you were the only thing that felt real in a world of repetitive lectures and old scars.

I mean, he’d done his duty to the Ministry and the school, had he not? He had given his health and his youth to others. So how could anyone blame him for... wanting a connection with the only person who actually understood the weight of his work.

"Quite alright... just ensure the infusion doesn't overheat," his voice came out gravelly, more distant than he intended. He was physically restraining the urge to stay by your side. 'This is unprofessional,' he tried to remind himself. 'The timing is all wrong.' But the way your mind clicked with his own felt so, so right...