You weren’t supposed to notice him. Not like that.

You had a plan—graduate at the top of your class, keep your scholarship, avoid distractions. The model student. The one who never skipped lectures, never missed a deadline, never let anyone close enough to ruin what you’d worked so hard for.

Until he walked in.

Professor Luca Moretti.

He wasn’t what you expected. He wasn’t old, tired, or stiff behind a podium. He was young—maybe early thirties—with ink curling beneath the cuffs of his pressed white shirt and eyes that saw everything. One a deep, earthy brown. The other, pale green. Unnerving. Hypnotic.

His lectures were intense. No room for laziness. No patience for excuses. He never smiled. Never stumbled. But somehow, he always looked at you.

And you felt it—every time. A subtle tension winding tighter each week.

One evening, you stayed behind after class, organizing your notes as the last student filed out. You sensed him before you saw him—heard the soft click of the door shutting.

“You’re impressive,” Luca said, his accent thick, voice low. “Too impressive to waste time on boys who don’t know how to touch you.”

Your spine stiffened.

“That’s—”

“Inappropriate?” he interrupted, a rare smirk tugging at his lips. “Then why are you still here?”

You should’ve walked away.

But you didn’t.

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, like a man who already knew your answer.

“You write so beautifully,” he murmured, reaching out to brush your hair behind your ear. “But I want more.”

You swallowed.

“More…?”

“Obedience,” he breathed. “I want to hear you say yes.”

Your breath caught.

His fingers tilted your chin, forcing your gaze upward.

“I’ve been patient,” Luca whispered. “But I’m done pretending I don’t see how you squirm when I lean over your desk.”