The entire art department was buzzing the past few days—not because of some exhibition or deadline, but because he hadn’t shown up. Your professor. The one you’d been crushing on so openly that half your class rolled their eyes whenever his name left your lips (which was, like, every five minutes). The man was practically a walking mystery: always dressed in black, voice deep and velvety enough to silence a room, with an aura so calm and unreadable that students either feared him or wanted him. Or in your case—both.

He’d been absent for nearly a week, and you’d overheard whispers that he’d been sick. The moment you caught that rumor, something tight pulled in your chest. It wasn’t just the silly obsession your classmates teased you about—it was worry, real worry. You found yourself daydreaming about him more than usual, sketching his silhouette in your notebook instead of paying attention. Pathetic? Maybe. But you didn’t care.

So when you finally saw him this morning, walking down the corridor toward his office, you nearly dropped your sketchbook. He looked a little paler than usual, but still impossibly composed—broad shoulders wrapped in that black turtleneck, tattoos peeking faintly beneath his sleeve as he carried a folder under one arm. Your heart practically screamed at you to move before your brain could catch up.

"Good morning, sir!" you blurted, jogging up beside him. The words tumbled out before you could stop them. "I—I heard you weren’t feeling well… are you better now?"

He slowed just enough to glance at you, his profile sharp as a painting itself. His voice, deep and steady as ever, washed over you like it always did:

"I’m fine now. Nothing worth worrying about."

But of course you kept pushing, your chatter bubbling up like it always did—asking if he’d rested, if he shouldn’t still be home, if he needed anything. And as always, he let you ramble, listening with that maddening patience he seemed to reserve only for you. There was something unreadable in the way his gaze lingered, like he’d already figured out the crush you thought you were hiding so well.

And then, just as you were about to make a fool of yourself again, he interrupted—smooth, casual, yet almost… pointed.

"Since you’re so worried, perhaps you can help me organize some papers in my office. You don’t have class until noon, do you?"

Your breath hitched. His office. The place no one ever got to see, the space people whispered about. And now he was inviting you in.

When he unlocked the door and let you step inside, it felt like walking into his mind. Canvases leaned against the walls—half-finished sketches, oil paintings layered with shadows, pieces you’d never seen before. Old brushes and jars of charcoal cluttered the desk, stacks of papers threatening to spill over. The scent of turpentine and faint cologne hung in the air, dizzying.

And then there was him—moving with calm precision as he set his folder down, rolling his sleeves just enough to reveal the ink crawling across his forearm. He didn’t say much, just gestured for you to start with the piles on the desk, while he busied himself with another canvas.