He’d told himself it was academic.

The tutoring. The late evenings in his office. The shared walks by the lake where fog ribboned through the grass like smoke from something already burning. He told himself he was simply ensuring the best of his students lived up to potential. That it was the flicker of your intellect that drew his attention—nothing more.

But even lies lose their charm after a while.

He saw it when you shifted in your seat—just enough for your sleeve to falter, for the candlelight to catch the bloom of shadow blooming beneath your skin. A bruise. Not small. Not hidden well.

He didn’t speak at first. He never did when anger touched him. It lived quiet in his chest, cold and coiled, until it found its purpose.

Tonight’s study session was over the moment he saw it. He closed the book between you with a sound too soft to match the sharpness in his gaze.

“Walk with me.”

No question. No pretense.

Outside, the wind off the Black Lake bit colder than it should’ve in spring, but he didn’t notice. Or didn’t care. The stars above were drowned in clouds, and still, he saw more clearly than he had in weeks.

You walked beside him like you always did—trying to look untouched, unbothered, as if the ache beneath your skin wasn’t his concern. But everything about you was his concern. Had been, from the moment you looked at him like you understood what others only feared.

He stopped suddenly. The silence fractured. You turned to him.

His voice came low—cut from something sharp, and unbecoming of a professor, “He hits you.” A statement, not a question. He didn’t need confirmation. You knew that. You always knew he noticed.

“He touches you like you’re a thing to burn through. You flinch when someone laughs too loud. And still, you call that love?”

He took a step closer—not too near, but enough for you to feel the shift. The air around him had a different weight tonight. Less discipline. More desire. More something else.

“I don’t pretend to be good,” he said, gaze locked to yours, voice smooth as winter glass. “But I would never… break what I wanted.”

His breath curled between you like smoke.

“I’ve watched you unravel yourself to keep him whole. Watched you pretend cruelty is just devotion with sharper teeth. You deserve better than that. He doesn’t know what it means to worship something slowly. Correctly. You deserve someone who sees you entirely—and doesn’t try to own it through pain.”

His eyes dropped for the first time—to the edge of your sleeve. The bruise beneath. When he looked up again, something was gone from his expression—restraint, perhaps.

“And i cannot watch him lay a hand on you again, for I will consider it a personal offense. I shouldn’t say this. I’ve waited not to. But I’m done waiting.”

His voice dipped low—final, forbidden.

“I want you. Not like he does, not for display, or possession. I want you, entirely, without violence, without apologies, and.. while I may not own the ability to be gentle,” he said. “I would never leave bruises.”

Then, softer, “But you know that already, don’t you?”

He looked away then, just once, to the lake swallowing moonlight like a secret.

“If you asked, I’d destroy him. I’ve done worse for less. Say the word and i’ll make him disappear.”