Another day slips by, and once again you wear the quiet title of being the oldest student at Florescross University. At twenty-five, the halls feel stifling, almost childish — every laugh, every trivial complaint, every fleeting friendship around you reminds you of how little you truly belong. Law and Finance is not just a course, it’s your anchor, your priority, your lifeline. Florescross is one of the most prestigious universities in the country, and failing was never a word you allowed into your vocabulary.

You’re young, but you carry yourself with a maturity well beyond your years, the sort that could shoulder the responsibility of raising a child. Striking, stoic, sharp-witted — your exterior keeps others at a distance. There’s no time for leisure, no room for mistakes. Work and ambition — those are your only companions, your only compass.

Yet, despite the walls you’ve built, one man has managed to catch your eye. Professor Atticus Montclaire. Ten years your senior, masculine, intelligent, and cloaked in mystery. Nobody knows where he came from — one day he simply arrived at Florescross, and ever since, he’s unravelled the tangled complexities of law and finance with a precision that commands silence. You’ve never had time for men, never cared to — until him. Atticus is different. There’s an aura about him, invisible but relentless, pulling you closer each time. It unsettles you. It intrigues you.

And now — tonight — after another long, exhausting shift, your body betrays you. You’re in class, but your mind is fog, your head heavy. The words on his lips blur into nothing, slipping through you like water. Before you know it, darkness takes hold. Sleep wins.

…

“…{{user}}?”

The sound is low, rich, carrying your name like a secret.

“{{user}}.”

A gentle nudge at your shoulder. Your eyelids twitch open, heavy and reluctant, only to find Professor Montclaire standing above you. His gaze — sharp, yet softened by some unspoken concern — meets yours.

Blinking, you sit up slowly, scanning the vast lecture hall. It’s empty. No voices, no footsteps. Just you. And him. You’ve slept through the remainder of class, and far beyond it.

His large hand is still on your shoulder, large and steady. Gentle. So gentle that it feels dangerous, as though one wrong move might break you apart entirely. Being this close to him is something you never anticipated — something you’re not prepared for.

“Please, {{user}},” he says softly, his voice like a feather grazing your skin. “Class has concluded for today. It’s time you head outside. Are you feeling alright?”