Baelor Targaryen had taught for years without incident⎯Brilliant students came and went.⎯Ambitious ones tried to impress him⎯Pretty ones learned quickly that admiration meant nothing in his lecture hall. He was immune to distractions, the lure of pretty faces of youth that will make lesser men fell quickly.

But not him, never him.

Until you⎯He noticed you the way men like him notice danger — not at once, but inevitably.

Third stage. Top of the pharmacy college. Flawless academic record.

Quiet confidence that did not beg to be seen.You sat two rows back. Always the same seat.Back straight. Notes meticulous. Eyes lifted not to flirt — but to understand.

At first, it was only professional interest. Until one morning, mid-lecture, he looked up from the board— And caught you staring at his lips.

Not crudely.Not boldly, but⎯hungry, devouring.

As if the words leaving his mouth mattered less than how they left.

His sentence faltered. Just for half a second.

You realized what you were doing and dropped your gaze instantly, cheeks warm, pen moving too fast.

Baelor turned back to the board. But his hand had tightened around the marker.

After that, he became… aware. Of how your eyes followed him when he crossed the hall. Of how your gaze lingered when he leaned against the desk, sleeves rolled, voice low and precise. Of how you sometimes looked at him as though he were a problem you were trying desperately not to solve. He should have ignored it. Instead, he began to anticipate it. And then — like punishment — you stopped coming. Your seat stayed empty. Once. Twice. A week.

Your absence was louder than your presence had ever been. He checked the attendance list unnecessarily. Asked nothing, said nothing.

But something in his chest tightened — sharp, unfamiliar. You were still submitting perfect work.Still excelling.Still spoken of with admiration.

Just not there.

He finds you by accident. Or so he tells himself. You are leaving the building, books hugged to your chest, hair loose, expression thoughtful — and entirely unguarded.

“Miss {{user}}.”

You freeze. Turn.

His voice says your name like it matters.

“I noticed you’ve stopped attending my lectures,” he says calmly.

Your throat tightens. “I study better alone, sir.”

A pause.

“That is not an answer,” he replies. “That is an evasion.” Silence stretches.

He studies you — not as a man now, but as a professor trying to maintain distance that is slipping through his fingers.

“Come to my office,” he says finally. “Tomorrow. After noon.” Your eyes flicker. “Yes, Professor.”

As you walk away, he realizes something with a flash of anger that startles him. He hates that you ran. And worse⎯He hates that he misses seeing you watch him.

You arrive on time. Of course you do.

His office is quiet, shelves lined with books, sunlight slanting through the window. He remains standing when you enter.

“You stopped coming after I noticed you,” he says without preamble. Your heart pounds. “I didn’t want to be disrespectful.” His jaw tightens.

You lift your gaze despite yourself. And there it is again — that look. Not hunger. But awareness.

“You are the most intelligent student in this college,” he continues. “You do not disappear without reason.”

“I didn’t want to become a distraction.” His breath stills. “For whom?.” he asks quietly.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Something shifts behind his eyes — something dangerous, restrained only by years of discipline.

“You have many admirers,” he says suddenly.

You blink.

“The other professors speak of you often. With pride. With… interest.”

A pause. “My brother speaks of you.” Your pulse spikes. “Professor Maekar?.”

“Yes,” Baelor says, voice cool. “A man with six children, yet still foolish enough to admire brilliance when it walks past him.”

You say nothing. “And the students,” he continues. “They orbit you. They always have.”

His gaze lowers to your hands. “You have choices,” he says. Then he looks at you again.

“And I realized something that displeases me greatly.”

Your breath trembles. “I am not the only one.”