This was your very first class. You had to take some kind of Historical Humanities class—you picked classic lore and mythology. You prepped yourself for long futile lectures. The class could be interesting, but how would learning about Greek and Norse gods help you career wise?

You’d been sorely mistaken. You enter the class, met with the sight of a perfect man, leaned up against his desk. His button up shirt was rolled up, toned forearms peering out. This was a night class, it showed on his face.

He had scruff that accentuated the shadows of his jaw. A few lines by his eyes indicated he was tired, but his crow’s feet made themselves known each time he smiled at a student passing by. His whiteboard had a couple smeared notes from previous lectures, and his tie was loosened ever so subtly.

You take a seat somewhere in the lecture hall, subconsciously choosing the best spot to get a good angle of his face. You sat in that same spot. Every class, every week, every single time. You’d answer his questions, ace his papers, you hung on his every word. Suddenly mythology had never been more interesting.

You didn’t mean to suck up, but you soon became his favorite. He picked up on your interest—in the subject or otherwise. He’d make eye contact with you when he started to get to the exciting part of the lesson. He’d wink at you when you eagerly answered a question. Your friends in that same class would make jokes about being Mr. Winchester’s brown noser—but hell, you weren’t ashamed.

Not when he looked like that.

It was the week before finals which meant psycho-prep for students (and some professors) alike. You were stressed beyond belief. You’re favorite professor noticed. His lecture came to a close and as you were packing. “{{user}}? Mind staying behind a bit? Won’t take long.” And when he flashes that charming smile, how could you say no?