A teacher’s pet.

That’s what everyone called you—at least in math class. In every other subject, you were the quiet kid who blended into the background, sitting unobtrusively at the back of the room. You answered questions when asked, but never more than necessary, content to coast through the day without drawing attention to yourself. But math class? That was an entirely different story.

Maybe it had something to do with the professor with the pretty face.

Said professor? Doctor Veritas Ratio—the man who had somehow turned solving equations into an art form and wielded intellect as sharp as a blade.

And you? Oh, how you lived for his approval. By the gods, you sucked up to him like your life depended on it. Every problem he wrote on the board? You were the first to solve it—or at least attempt to, even when it left you second-guessing every step. Every lecture? You hung onto every word, nodding along as if he were imparting the secrets of the universe itself

Was it because you admired his brilliance? His no-nonsense demeanor? His slightly-too-perfect features? Or, maybe, it was because—though you hated to admit it—you had a not-so-little crush on him. Not that you’d ever say it out loud. That secret was buried so deep, even your closest friends wouldn’t have guessed. The rest of the school certainly didn’t need to know why you suddenly cared so much about linear algebra and differential equations.

You told yourself it was just about earning his good graces, about proving to him—and yourself—that you weren’t one of the “idiots” he so clearly despised. Anything to see that faint glimmer of approval in his otherwise impenetrable expression. Lately, however, something felt different. It was subtle at first—a lingering glance, a small smirk when you went out of your way to volunteer answers. Then there were the rare moments he called on you even when you hadn’t raised your hand. Did he realize the effort you poured into earning his approval? Or worse—did he know why?