Archive of Our Own ^beta

You never thought you’d look forward to physics lectures. But then again, you never thought your professor would be him .

Sim Jaeyun. Mr. Sim.

Just his name made your stomach feel warm. He was the reason you dragged yourself out of bed early, the reason you actually brushed your hair before class. The reason you swapped your oversized hoodie for a soft cardigan that, you hoped, looked a little prettier.

He was standing at the front of the lecture hall now, one hand in the pocket of his tailored black slacks, the other adjusting his glasses. His hair was slightly mussed in a way that looked unintentional, but you couldn’t help imagining him running a frustrated hand through it while grading papers late into the night.

He was speaking about electromagnetic fields—something you should probably be writing down—but your pen was poised uselessly over your notebook. All you could do was trace the outline of his silhouette with your eyes: the crisp black button-up that hugged his shoulders, the veins on the back of his hand gripping the whiteboard marker, the shape of his mouth when he paused to think.

“…and this is why Faraday’s law is foundational to our understanding of induction,” he said, turning briefly to the board. His voice was smooth but a little detached, like he was always somewhere deeper in thought.

You sighed, pressing your cheek to your palm. Even the way he spoke was unfairly attractive—low and clear, a little cold. Like nothing could ruffle him.

“God, you’ve got it bad ,” your friend Yoonchae whispered next to you, flicking your elbow with her pen.

“Shh,” you hissed, feeling your face heat up.

“You wore a skirt. For physics.”

“Stop.”

“I’m serious. You think he’s going to notice you’re not in sweats today?”

Your stomach dropped a little, because you knew the answer: no. Of course he wouldn’t. He never looked at you any differently than he did any other student. You were just another face in a hundred.

Still…you tried. Every Tuesday and Thursday morning, you picked out something a little nicer. You dabbed on perfume. You even dared to raise your hand sometimes, hoping he’d look right at you, hoping maybe your voice would catch his attention.

But he never faltered. Never smiled in a way that felt personal. Never did anything that hinted he noticed how you watched him.

“Alright,” he said suddenly, snapping the cap on the marker and sliding his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “That’s all for today. I’ll post the problem set by this evening.”

As the class began to stir, gathering backpacks and chattering, you sat for a moment longer. Just watching him collect his notes and slip them into a leather folder. He looked tired, like he hadn’t slept much.

Before you could stop yourself, you imagined how he might look in the morning, hair even messier, voice hoarse. Your stomach flipped so violently you had to stand up quickly to hide it.

“Let’s go, Physics Wife,” Yoonchae teased, tugging your sleeve.

You rolled your eyes, but as you left the lecture hall, you allowed yourself one last look back. He was still at the podium, rubbing the space between his brows, utterly unaware of the way your heart was thrumming out of your chest.

It was just a crush. A ridiculous, impossible crush on your young, brilliant, completely unattainable professor.

But you already knew you’d spend the rest of the day thinking about the way his glasses slipped down his nose, wishing—just for a second—that he’d look up and see you too.

You told yourself you were going to office hours just to ask about the assignment. You rehearsed the question a dozen times in your head— Can you clarify problem 3? —because you knew if you didn’t, you’d get flustered and forget every word you’d ever known.

But the truth was, you just wanted to see him up close, in that quiet little office with the warm lamplight and the scent of old textbooks and his cologne.

When you knocked, he called, “Come in,” in that perfectly even tone.

You stepped inside, clutching your notebook to your chest. He was seated behind his desk, reading something on his laptop, glasses low on his nose. His hair was falling into his eyes again.

He looked up, and your heart squeezed so tight it almost hurt.

“Hi,” you managed, voice a little too soft. “I—I had a question about the problem set.”

“Alright.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “Have a seat.”

You sat, knees brushing the edge of his desk. Closer than you’d ever been.

“What’s giving you trouble?”

Everything, you almost blurted. You.

But you swallowed hard and opened your notebook, showing him your messy equations. He leaned forward, reading them, and you had to grip the sides of your seat to keep from trembling. The way he smelled—clean and a little woody—made you feel dizzy.

“Here,” he murmured, taking your pen. His long fingers brushed yours, and you swore you forgot how to breathe. “You’re overcomplicating the integral. Look.”

He started writing, and you stared helplessly at his hand. His knuckles were elegant, veins running over the back of them. His wrist flexed under the cuff of his black shirt. You felt a humiliating flush rising up your throat, and you were so glad he wasn’t looking at your face.

“You follow?”

You blinked. “S-sorry, um—could you repeat that?”

He paused, lifting his gaze to yours. For the briefest second, something softened in his expression—just a flicker of surprise, maybe amusement. His eyes were so dark, so steady, it made your pulse roar in your ears.

“Of course,” he said finally, his voice quieter. “Let’s go over it again.”

He explained patiently, never showing a hint of frustration, but you were only catching fragments. All you could do was try not to look at his mouth when he spoke, try not to imagine the way he might sound saying something that wasn’t about physics.

When he finished, you nodded a little too quickly. “Thank you. I—I think I understand now.”

“Good.” His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than you expected, and you felt your chest constrict.

You stood, fumbling with your bag. He leaned back in his chair, watching you with that composed, unreadable expression.

“Have a good evening,” he said, his voice smooth as ever.

You opened the door and turned back one last time, just to see him sitting there—hair messy, sleeves rolled to his forearms, glasses reflecting the warm light. So calm, so effortlessly beautiful.

Unreachable.

You closed the door behind you, pressing a hand to your racing heart.

Yoonchae was waiting for you in the hallway, arms folded, grinning like she’d just watched something scandalous.

“Oh my god, ” she whispered, grabbing your arm. “Tell me you did not just go in there to stare at him for twenty minutes.”

“I—I asked about the assignment,” you stammered, face burning.

“Sure you did.”

You didn’t deny it. Because it was true—no matter how much you tried to pretend otherwise, you were hopeless.

You’d go home tonight, lie in bed, and think about the way his voice softened when he spoke to you. The way he smelled. The way he looked at you, even if it was only for a second.

It was the worst kind of yearning: for something you knew you could never have.

“HE SAID IT SUITS YOU?”

“Yes!” you wailed, hugging Yoonchae’s throw pillow like it was a life raft. “He literally looked me in the eye and said it suits you —like—like he notices I look different!”

Yoonchae slapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes huge. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”

You nodded frantically. “And it wasn’t in a weird way. He sounded so— soft. Like he actually meant it.”

“Girl…” She reached over and shook your shoulder. “Do you realize you’re going to combust? Because you’re already on the verge.”

You groaned and buried your face in the pillow. “I hate this. I hate him. I hate that he’s—so—so— unreachable and still manages to look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m…worth looking at.”

Yoonchae flopped onto her back, kicking her feet in the air. “You know this is literally the plot of an academic romance novel, right?”

“Shut up,” you whined, your voice muffled.

“You shut up,” she shot back, giggling. “You better keep going to office hours, because this is the best entertainment I’ve ever had.”

Thursday afternoon, you stayed after class, clutching your notebook like it might shield you from how mortifying it was that you still didn’t understand half the content.

He was wiping the board when you approached.

“Mr. Sim?” Your voice came out quieter than you intended.

He glanced over his shoulder, that unreadable expression softening just a touch when he saw you. “Yes?”

“I—um—I didn’t really get the part about magnetic flux.” You shifted your weight, feeling stupid. “I’ve tried reading it three times and I just…I don’t know. My brain won’t work.”

He turned fully toward you, one hand braced on the edge of the board, the other absently adjusting his glasses. “You’re not the only one who struggles with that concept,” he said, voice calm. “It’s more abstract than the previous units.”

Something about the way he said it— you’re not the only one —made your shoulders loosen a little.

“Do you have a moment now?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Alright.” He gestured for you to bring your notebook closer.

You ended up standing shoulder to shoulder with him at the whiteboard, while he drew a little diagram. His sleeve brushed your arm every time he moved, and you could smell that faint, clean scent you were starting to associate with him.

“This vector here,” he murmured, tapping the diagram, “is what you were forgetting. That’s why your answer didn’t make sense.”

“Oh…” you breathed, blinking. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he confirmed.

You stared at the board, and slowly— finally —it clicked. All the confusion you’d been dragging around for weeks just…lifted.

“Oh my god,” you blurted, pressing a hand over your mouth. “I get it. I actually get it.”

A laugh—quiet, startled—escaped him.

You turned to find him watching you, his mouth tugged into the smallest, softest smile you’d ever seen on him. A smile so faint you’d miss it if you weren’t really looking.

It made your heart thump so hard you felt it in your throat.

“Thank you,” you said, voice breathless, hands flapping uselessly in front of you. “Thank you, thank you—I’m sorry, I’m being weird, but I’m just so relieved—”

“It’s alright,” he interrupted gently, and—god—there was something warm in his eyes. Something that made your knees feel unreliable.

When you finally tore your gaze away, cheeks hot, he let out another tiny huff of laughter.

“I’m glad it finally made sense,” he said, his voice low.

You nodded, swallowing hard, trying to remember that he was your professor. That you were supposed to be composed.

But for that one moment—standing too close, his faint smile lingering—it didn’t feel like you were just a student to him.

“ He laughed? ”

You nodded, pacing across the dorm floor. “Like—a real laugh. Well—not like— loud , but he—he smiled and made this little sound—”

“Are you sure you didn’t hallucinate?”

“I’m positive!” you yelped, stopping in front of her. “He was so close, and he was…he was warm. Like he was happy I understood.”

Yoonchae propped her chin in her hand, eyes gleaming. “You are so screwed.”

You groaned, flopping facedown on her bed. “I know.”

And you did.

Because you could lie to yourself all you wanted—but you’d never look at him the same after seeing that secret, hidden smile.

You were really, really trying to move on.

You told yourself over and over:

He’s just your professor. This is stupid. You’ll graduate, you’ll never see him again, and he probably won’t even remember your name.

But it was impossible.

Because every time you thought you were getting better—every time you managed to shove your feelings into some dark corner—he did something small that unraveled all your progress.

Like the way he’d look at you when you raised your hand now—really look , eyes lingering an extra beat before he called on you.

Or the way, after lectures, he’d stay standing at the front until you finished packing up, like he was waiting to see if you’d come ask something again.

Or the memory of that one, almost-hidden smile—burned so deep into your mind you could replay it perfectly if you closed your eyes.

You tried not to stare. Really.

You were wearing your usual uniform again: glasses, messy bun, soft gray hoodie. You’d almost convinced yourself you were just any other student.

But then he walked in—black slacks, white shirt today, sleeves rolled to his elbows—and you felt your stomach flutter in the most pathetic way.

He greeted the class, voice low and steady, and you focused all your energy on scribbling the date in your notebook.

Don’t look at him, you told yourself. He’s just a man. A man who doesn’t think about you at all.

But then, when he started writing on the board, you glanced up—and he was already watching you.

Your breath caught.

For a second, you thought maybe you were imagining it. But no—his eyes were still on you, steady and unreadable. Like he was trying to figure something out.

When he finally looked away, your pulse was racing so fast you felt dizzy.

You tried to escape quickly, hoping to avoid any more eye contact, but you heard his voice behind you:

“Miss?”

You froze.

Turning slowly, you found him standing by the classroom door, his expression careful.

“Yes?”

He hesitated, as if debating whether he should speak. “If you need more help with the material…you’re welcome to come by. Even if it’s just to go over the basics again.”

Your heart twisted. Because he was being kind—probably just being a good teacher—but it felt like more. Like he noticed how much you were struggling to stay afloat, and for some reason, he cared.

“I—I might,” you stammered, trying not to sound breathless. “Thank you.”

He gave a small nod, his gaze flicking over you—your hoodie, your tired eyes—and for the briefest instant, something warm flickered there.

“Have a good afternoon,” he murmured.

“You too,” you whispered, voice too small.

“You are so not over him,” she declared, holding up a bag of chips like it was a gavel.

“I know,” you groaned, covering your face with both hands. “I’m doomed. Every time I think I’m done being an idiot, he—he just— looks at me. ”

“You realize he doesn’t look at anyone else like that, right?”

“Stop.”

“I’m serious,” she insisted. “He’s warmer with you. It’s weird.”

Your heart squeezed. Because you knew she was right.

Even if you tried to rationalize it—tell yourself he was just being polite, just doing his job—it didn’t feel like that.

Not when he watched you with that searching, thoughtful expression.

Not when he spoke to you in a voice just a little softer than the one he used with everyone else.

Not when you caught that ghost of a smile that you were sure no one else ever saw.

You lay in bed that night, hugging your pillow, staring at the ceiling.

It doesn’t matter, you told yourself. You can’t have him. You’ll get over it.

But in the quiet dark, you knew the truth.

You’d never look at anyone else the same way.

Not when he was so calm, so unreachable—and yet, somehow, every time he looked at you, it felt like he saw you.

You woke up before your alarm, heart pounding.

For a moment you didn’t remember why—until the last scraps of your dream clung to you like sticky cobwebs.

Him.

His glasses gone. His black shirt wrinkled, halfway undone. His hand cupping your jaw while he looked down at you with that calm, unreadable gaze you’d thought about a thousand times—except this time, he was touching you like he couldn’t stop.

You lay there, staring at the ceiling, your face hot.

What is wrong with me?

You turned onto your stomach and buried your face in your pillow. Because even when you tried to shake it off, your imagination wouldn’t leave you alone.

You thought about his hands—those long, graceful fingers, the veins on the backs of them. How they would look tangled in your hair.

You thought about his voice, quiet and low, saying your name in a way no one else ever had.

And—god—you were losing it.

Maybe you were ovulating or something. Maybe you were just clinically insane. Either way, it was like every carefully built wall in your head had collapsed overnight.

Physics.

You were already flushed before you even walked in the door.

You tried to keep your head down, slipping into your seat like usual, but you could feel it—the way every part of you was on edge, thrumming.

When he stepped to the front of the room, fresh coffee in hand, sleeves rolled to his elbows, you nearly had to cross your legs under the desk.

Get a grip, you told yourself.

But you couldn’t.

Because he was so beautiful it made your chest ache. So calm and so unreachable —and that just made you want him more.

You watched his hands when he wrote on the board. You watched his mouth when he spoke. You even caught yourself wondering how he’d sound if you—

You swallowed hard, dragging your gaze back to your notes.

When you finally dared to look up again, he was watching you.

Your breath caught.

His eyes flickered—down to where your pen was frozen in your hand, back up to your face. He looked almost puzzled. Almost like he could sense that something was different.

And you knew you were giving yourself away, because you couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t stop thinking about that dream, about every secret longing you’d tried to bury.

You shifted in your seat, crossing and uncrossing your legs under the desk, trying to look like you were paying attention.

Focus. Focus.

But then he asked a question, and when no one answered, his eyes went straight to you.

“Miss?”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

He tilted his head just a little. “Are you alright?”

That was it.

Your face went nuclear.

“I—I’m fine,” you stammered, voice way too soft.

His gaze lingered, and for a terrifying second, you thought he could see every filthy thought in your head.

But he only nodded slowly, turning back to the board.

You packed your things as fast as you could, desperate to get out before you embarrassed yourself any further.

But when you finally looked up, he was standing by the door, watching you.

“Miss,” he said again, more quietly this time. “You’re sure you’re alright?”

You hugged your notebook to your chest, unable to meet his eyes for more than a second. “Yes. Sorry. I—I just didn’t sleep well.”

A pause.

Then, softer still:

“Alright.”

You risked one last glance up—and caught the faint crease between his brows. That look of concern.

It made your heart hurt.

Because even though he had no idea what was really wrong, he noticed.

And that made it so much worse.

“I think I’m broken,” you announced, flinging yourself onto Yoonchae’s bed.

She didn’t even look up from her laptop. “More than usual?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“I—” You pressed your palms over your face. “I had a dream about him. A bad dream.”

“Oh my god.” She finally looked over, eyes huge. “Like— bad bad?”

You let out a strangled groan. “I literally can’t look at him without wanting to crawl into the floor and die.”

Yoonchae kicked you lightly. “You need to get laid.”

“Shut up.”

“No, seriously. You’re going insane.”

You peeked out from between your fingers. “I know.”

Because you were.

You were so far gone, you couldn’t even pretend anymore.

Every glance, every small softness, every moment of kindness—made you long for him so badly you felt it in your bones.

And you were terrified he could see it too.

You told yourself you’d look at your notes, you’d look at your desk, you’d look at the damn ceiling—anywhere but him.

But the second he started speaking, you were lost.

That morning, he was in charcoal gray slacks and a pale blue shirt, sleeves pushed up like always, the top button undone. His glasses slid down his nose as he wrote, and you had to grip your pen tight so you didn’t visibly swoon like some romance-obsessed idiot.

Every time he spoke, you imagined how that voice would sound if he were closer—close enough to feel his breath on your skin.

Get a grip, you scolded yourself. You’re going to combust in the middle of a lecture hall.

But it didn’t matter.

Your gaze kept drifting back to him, over and over, like you were tethered.

You were zoning out again, eyes locked on the precise way his fingers curled around the marker.

The worst part was, you didn’t even care that you looked obvious.

You were too far gone.

When he paused to look over the class, his eyes caught yours—and held.

Your chest seized.

It was too long a look to be casual. Too direct.

For a terrifying second, you thought you might be imagining it.

But then, slowly, almost imperceptibly—

—he smiled.

No, not a full smile. More like a smirk. A tiny curve at one side of his mouth, there and gone in an instant.

You blinked, heat rushing all the way up your neck.

Did that just happen?

He turned back to the board as if nothing had occurred, voice perfectly even as he explained the next equation.

You sat there frozen, heart hammering against your ribs, unable to process anything but the way your whole body felt too warm.

You stumbled out of the lecture hall like you’d forgotten how to walk.

Yoonchae caught up to you by the vending machines. “Hey—wait up.”

You didn’t look at her, just stared blankly at the machine. “I think I’m hallucinating.”

“Oh god,” she sighed. “What now?”

“He smirked at me.”

She blinked. “Like— smirk smirk?”

You nodded weakly. “Like he knows I’m—” Your voice dropped to a whisper. “—thinking things.”

Yoonchae slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh my god.”

“I’m not imagining it,” you insisted, voice rising. “He looked right at me. And—and—”

“And you’re losing your mind,” she finished, trying not to burst out laughing.

“Yes!” you hissed. “I’m absolutely losing my mind.”

You pressed your palm over your mouth, heart still racing. Because that split second—his eyes on yours, that faint smirk—felt like the most dangerous thing in the world.

And you knew.

Knew you’d never be able to pretend he was just your professor again.

You lay in bed, staring into the dark, replaying it over and over:

The way he looked at you.

That knowing, quiet smirk.

Like he’d finally noticed how you watched him—and maybe, maybe he didn’t mind.

You pressed your hands over your face, your whole body warm with wanting.

You were in so much trouble.

You swore you’d stop looking at him like that.

You swore it.

But all it took was one more lecture—one more morning of him in a black shirt with the cuffs unbuttoned, hair slightly mussed, voice calm as ever—and you were gone again.

The whole class, you felt it: the weight of his attention drifting back to you, over and over. Like he was checking to see if you were watching. Like he expected you to be.

And, god, you were.

So when the final slide disappeared from the projector and students started packing up, you were already half in a daze.

“Miss,” he called, voice perfectly steady.

You froze, halfway out of your seat.

You turned, hugging your notebook to your chest. “Y-yes?”

“Could you stay a moment?”

Your pulse stuttered.

You nodded, voice stuck in your throat.

Yoonchae caught your eye as she passed by, eyebrows nearly hitting her hairline. You knew she was going to explode your phone later.

When the room emptied, he set his marker down carefully, turning to face you fully.

His gaze was level. Calm. But there was something different in it—a quiet curiosity, like he was trying to unravel you.

You swallowed. “Is…something wrong?”

“No,” he said, voice low. “Nothing’s wrong.”

You waited, fingers tightening on your notebook.

He studied you a moment longer, head tilting just slightly.

“You’ve seemed…” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “…preoccupied lately.”

Your heart climbed into your throat.

“I—” You tried to find something to say that wouldn’t humiliate you. “It’s—it’s just been a stressful semester.”

His eyes flickered, like he didn’t quite believe you.

“Alright,” he said softly. But he didn’t look away. “If you need help…with anything…you know you can ask.”

The way he said it— anything —made your face go hot.

You nodded, swallowing. “I—I know. Thank you.”

A pause.

And then—so quietly you almost missed it:

“You look at me,” he murmured, his gaze fixed steadily on yours. “Like you’re trying to figure something out.”

Your breath caught.

You didn’t know what to say.

Because what were you supposed to do—lie? Pretend you hadn’t been watching him like he was something you’d never be allowed to touch?

He didn’t look away. Didn’t look uncomfortable. He just studied you, like he was searching for some answer you hadn’t given him yet.

“I…” You trailed off, voice failing.

For a second, the tension was so heavy you felt dizzy.

But then he blinked slowly, almost like he was reminding himself of something—his role, his boundaries—and stepped back, creating just enough distance to breathe.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, his voice perfectly even again. “That was out of line.”

“No,” you blurted, heart beating too fast. “It’s—I just…”

He held up a hand, gentle but firm. “It’s alright.”

But when he looked at you one last time—just before you turned to leave—his gaze was softer than you’d ever seen.

Like he wasn’t angry. Like he was just…trying to understand you.

And maybe—just maybe—himself.

“He said you look at him like you’re trying to figure something out?”

You nodded miserably, your face buried in a throw pillow. “I’m going to move to another country.”

“Oh my god,” Yoonchae hissed, grabbing your shoulder. “That’s not normal teacher behavior. He’s noticing. ”

“I know!” you wailed.

“And he didn’t sound mad?”

“No,” you whispered. “He sounded…curious.”

Yoonchae fell dramatically onto her back, shrieking into the air.

“You are so—so— so doomed,” she groaned.

You knew she was right.

Because as mortifying as it was, you already knew you wouldn’t be able to stop watching him.

Not after that.

You’d thought nothing could top the humiliation of him asking why you looked at him like that.

But you were wrong.

Because after that day, it wasn’t just you anymore.

He started watching you, too.

It was a rainy Tuesday, and you were trying— trying —to take notes instead of imagining how he’d look with that careful shirt unbuttoned, hair messier, voice lower.

You’d convinced yourself it was all in your head—maybe he’d been tired, maybe he’d been overthinking, too.

But halfway through the lecture, when you dared to glance up—

His gaze was already on you.

And this time, he didn’t look away right away.

He held it.

Long enough that your breath caught in your throat.

Then—almost as if he remembered where he was—he shook his head, just a tiny movement, like he was trying to clear it.

And went back to writing on the board.

It was worse.

You were slouched in your chair in your usual hoodie and messy bun, gnawing the end of your pen, determined not to let your imagination win.

But every time he turned to look at the class, his eyes found yours.

It wasn’t deliberate—at least, you didn’t think it was.

But it happened again. And again.

Until finally, while he was explaining an example, he trailed off mid-sentence, blinking like he’d lost his place.

He looked straight at you, his brow pinched faintly, almost frustrated—like he couldn’t think when you were staring back.

You felt your whole body go warm.

He cleared his throat, glancing away. His hand came up to rub at his temple, the cuff of his white shirt sliding up his forearm.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was a little rough around the edges.

The next class, you promised yourself you’d behave.

You’d take notes. You’d look anywhere but at him.

But the second he stepped up to the front—black button-down, hair perfectly disheveled, expression tired and thoughtful—you were useless again.

Halfway through, you felt it: his eyes on you.

You peeked up through your lashes.

He was staring.

And this time, he didn’t try to hide it.

For a moment, it was like the room disappeared—just you and him, breathing the same tense, electric air.

He pressed his lips together, exhaling slowly, and gave the faintest shake of his head, as if scolding himself.

Then—very deliberately—he looked back down at his notes.

But you saw it.

The quiet, frustrated wanting he tried so hard to hide.

And it wrecked you.

Because even though you knew it could never happen—should never happen—part of you was already gone.

Hopeless for a man you could never have.

By now, you were sure everyone in the room could feel it.

The way the air shifted every time you looked up. The way it felt too warm, too alive with something you couldn’t name.

It was supposed to be torture.

And it was.

But it was also…god help you…starting to be funny.

Because the man who used to be so calm—so untouchable—was slowly, visibly unraveling.

You were actually paying attention—sort of.

But then he turned to write something on the board, the chalk held loose between those long fingers, and you let your eyes wander over the slope of his shoulders, the way the fabric pulled across his back.

When he turned back to face the class, your gaze was still on him.

And he knew.

He paused, lips parting like he was about to say something.

Then he looked away, shook his head very slightly, and let out a quiet, barely audible laugh—like he was scolding himself for even noticing.

It was the most dangerously endearing thing you’d ever seen.

And that’s when it hit you:

He was just as gone as you were.

It was worse.

You were slouched in your chair in your usual hoodie and messy bun, gnawing the end of your pen, determined not to let your imagination win.

But every time he turned to look at the class, his eyes found yours.

It wasn’t deliberate—at least, you didn’t think it was.

But it happened again. And again.

Until finally, while he was explaining an example, he trailed off mid-sentence, blinking like he’d lost his place.

He looked straight at you, his brow pinched faintly, almost frustrated—like he couldn’t think when you were staring back.

You felt your whole body go warm.

He cleared his throat, glancing away. His hand came up to rub at his temple, the cuff of his white shirt sliding up his forearm.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was a little rough around the edges.

The next class, you leaned back in your seat, pen between your fingers, your gaze steady on him.

And this time, you didn’t even bother pretending you weren’t staring.

Because now you knew he’d feel it.

Sure enough, ten minutes in, he started to fidget.

The tiniest shift of weight. The way he adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat, looked down at his notes for longer than necessary.

Like he was trying to remind himself where he was.

And for the first time, you almost— almost —smiled.

Because it was absurd.

Absurd that he was so composed and brilliant, and yet you—just you, with your tired eyes and messy bun and oversized hoodie—could make him lose his place.

You felt your lips tug at the corners, your chest warm in a way that wasn’t all ache.

He caught your eye, and you saw the exact moment he realized you were enjoying this.

His jaw flexed, just once.

Then he looked back at the board, exhaled slowly, and tried—tried—to focus.

You were gathering your things when he spoke, voice low.

“Miss.”

You turned.

He was standing there, hands in his pockets, watching you with that same quiet frustration.

You swallowed, feeling heat climb your neck.

“Yes?”

His eyes searched yours for a long moment.

And then—so quietly you almost didn’t hear it—he exhaled a laugh, the softest sound, and shook his head.

Like he couldn’t believe you. Like he couldn’t believe himself.

“Nothing,” he murmured finally. “Have a good afternoon.”

But you heard the way his voice softened on the word good.

And you knew you’d think about it all night.

You’d told yourself you were only going to office hours because you really did need help.

You had two whole pages of questions. You’d even practiced what you were going to say so you wouldn’t sound like you were making excuses just to see him.

But when you stepped into the small office—warm with the late afternoon sun slanting across the shelves—you knew immediately you were in trouble.

Because he was there alone, leaning over the desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair falling a little into his eyes.

He looked tired. And beautiful. And a little wary, like he already knew you were about to undo him again.

You closed the door softly behind you.

“Miss,” he said, voice low, polite. But his eyes lingered on you, flickering over your face, your hair pinned up messily, the hoodie you’d started to think he secretly liked.

You sat down, setting your notebook carefully on the desk between you.

“I had some questions,” you murmured.

He nodded. “Of course.”

You could have left it at that. Could have pretended this was all innocent.

But today—god help you—you were feeling reckless.

You leaned your chin into your palm, watching him as he flipped through your notes.

“Here,” you said softly, pointing at a half-finished equation. “I don’t understand why it doesn’t work like the example.”

He started to explain, his voice measured, gaze fixed on the page.

And you watched him.

Really watched him—his mouth, the way he wet his lips when he was thinking, the little crease between his brows.

When he glanced up mid-sentence, he caught you staring, unblinking, your cheek propped on your hand.

Something in his expression faltered.

You didn’t look away.

Instead, you let the corner of your mouth curve up—just barely. A tiny, knowing smile.

His breath caught. You heard it.

He dropped his gaze back to the paper, exhaling slowly, like he was trying to pull himself together.

“Sorry,” you murmured, voice quiet and almost playful. “Am I distracting you?”

He froze.

Then he looked up, and there it was—something raw in his eyes.

You held his gaze, your heart beating so fast you thought he’d hear it.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then—so quietly—he let out a laugh. Just a single, incredulous sound.

“Are you,” he said, his voice low and strained, “doing this on purpose?”

You swallowed, your throat tight.

“Doing what?” you asked, feigning innocence you absolutely didn’t feel.

His jaw flexed. He looked back at your notebook, but his fingers tapped once against the desk, restless, betraying him.

You knew you’d won—just a little.

By the time he finished helping you, the sun was almost gone.

You gathered your things slowly, feeling your pulse in every inch of your skin.

When you stood, you dared to look at him one last time.

He was watching you again.

And for the first time, he didn’t even pretend he wasn’t.

“Thank you,” you said, voice softer than you meant it to be.

He inclined his head, but his eyes never left yours.

“You’re welcome,” he said quietly.

You turned to go, heart in your throat.

And as you reached the door, you heard it—his breath, drawn in sharp, like he was trying to steady himself.

You almost smiled again.

Because you’d learned something today:

No matter how calm he looked in front of everyone else…

When it was just you and him in that quiet room—

He couldn’t hide how badly he wanted you.

After that afternoon, something shifted between you.

You’d always been hopeless for him—but now, you knew he felt it too.

The next week, you came to office hours again. This time, you didn’t even pretend you were there only for help.

You came because you wanted to.

He was at his desk again, sleeves rolled, reading glasses perched low on his nose.

When you knocked, he looked up—and you saw it right away.

That faint flicker in his eyes. The part of him that braced, like he already knew you were going to undo him.

“Miss,” he greeted, voice polite but softer than it should have been.

You closed the door behind you, your heart thumping.

“I had a few questions,” you said innocently.

He gestured for you to sit, but he looked…resigned. Like he already knew you weren’t just here for the equations.

You sat close. Closer than you needed to.

And when he started explaining, you let your knee bump his under the desk.

Once.

Twice.

Like it was an accident.

The first time, he didn’t react.

The second time, he drew in a careful breath and moved his leg just slightly away—only to let it drift back, brushing yours again.

You almost smiled.

“Do you understand this part?” he asked, voice low.

You tilted your head, feigning a thoughtful look. “Not really.”

His jaw flexed.

“Alright,” he said, and the way he said it made your skin prickle. He cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses—anything to avoid your eyes.

And when he finally dared to look up, you were already watching him.

You didn’t look away.

He swallowed, throat working.

And you almost felt bad for how easy it was to pull him apart.

Almost.

At one point, he turned slightly to grab a textbook—and your gaze fell to the way his shirt pulled across his back.

You knew you should look away.

You didn’t.

When he straightened again, he caught you staring.

This time, you didn’t pretend innocence.

You let your lips part just a little, your breath catching in a way you knew he could hear.

He held your gaze.

And—god help you—he let out a tiny, frustrated laugh, like he couldn’t believe you.

“Miss…” His voice was hoarse, quiet. “You really shouldn’t look at me like that.”

Your heart was in your throat.

“Like what?” you asked, almost a whisper.

His eyes flickered to your mouth.

He looked away so fast it felt like a shock.

The rest of the session passed in a haze—him trying to act unaffected, you pretending not to notice how tense he was.

When you finally stood to leave, your hand brushed his on the edge of the desk.

Just that—skin on skin, for a second.

But it was enough.

He drew in a sharp breath, like he’d been burned.

You stepped back, your heart beating so fast it hurt.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then he let out a long, careful exhale and shook his head—like he was trying to clear it.

You almost smiled again.

Because you’d never seen him this undone.

You turned to the door, gripping your notebook like a lifeline.

“Thank you,” you said softly, not quite trusting your voice.

He didn’t answer right away.

When you looked back, he was watching you with an expression you’d never seen before—like he wanted to say something, but knew he couldn’t.

“Have a good evening,” he murmured finally, voice quiet and strained.

You nodded, stepping into the hallway, your pulse thrumming in your ears.

When the door clicked shut behind you, you almost laughed out loud.

Because no matter how unreachable he’d seemed all semester—

Now you knew:

He was just as lost as you were.

It was late—later than you’d ever stayed.

Most of the building was dark, quiet except for the faint hum of the lights in the hallway.

You’d waited until everyone else had left to come back. Told yourself it was because you didn’t want any interruptions.

But really—you just wanted him alone.

When you stepped into his office, he was at the window, one hand in his pocket, watching the sky turn from blue to gray.

He didn’t look surprised to see you.

“Miss.” His voice was quiet, a little rough.

You hovered by the door, your pulse already climbing. “I—I was hoping you could help me with something.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak for a moment.

Then—so softly you almost didn’t hear it—he let out a breath and turned to face you.

“You always do,” he murmured.

Your heart thudded painfully.

You set your notebook down on his desk, trying to ignore the way your hands shook.

He came closer than usual. Close enough that when he looked down at the page, you felt the heat of him at your side.

“What is it you don’t understand?”

You swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry. “This part,” you whispered, pointing at a scrawled line of numbers you could barely focus on.

He leaned over your shoulder—slowly, deliberately.

And when he spoke, his voice was lower than you’d ever heard it.

“Here,” he murmured, the word brushing warm against your ear. “You’re forgetting to carry this variable.”

You felt your whole body go tense.

His breath stirred a strand of hair near your cheek, and when you turned your head just a fraction, your shoulder brushed his chest.

He didn’t move away.

Didn’t even try.

His hand came up, resting on the back of your chair—caging you in without quite touching you.

You felt his exhale, slow and careful, like he was fighting something inside himself.

“Do you understand now?” he asked, his voice barely more than a rasp.

You nodded, though you weren’t sure you did. Your head was spinning.

He leaned a little closer.

“So why,” he continued, softer, almost like he was talking to himself, “do you still look at me like that?”

Your breath caught.

“Like what?” you whispered.

He let out a quiet laugh against your ear—exasperated, almost disbelieving.

“You know exactly what,” he murmured.

Your hands tightened around the edges of your notebook, knuckles white.

When you didn’t answer, he drew back just enough to look down at you.

And the way he was watching you—god—like he was trying to memorize every part of you.

“I’ve tried,” he said quietly, voice steady even as his hand flexed on the chair behind you, “to ignore it. To be professional.”

You swallowed hard, your whole body strung tight as a wire.

“But you—” he paused, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe he was saying any of this. “You make it…difficult.”

You looked up at him, your lips parting.

And in that moment, you almost laughed.

Because he sounded just as helpless as you felt.

“You’re the one who keeps looking at me,” you whispered.

His jaw tightened.

“I know.”

And the way he said it—like a confession, like an apology—made your heart lurch painfully.

For a moment, the only sound was your breathing, too loud in the quiet room.

His gaze flickered down to your mouth.

Then—slowly, like it cost him everything—he stepped back, putting a careful space between you.

“You should go,” he murmured, his voice frayed around the edges. “Before I forget why I shouldn’t—”

He didn’t finish.

He didn’t have to.

Because you knew.

Knew exactly what he’d almost done.

And knew you’d think about it every second until you saw him again.

You’d spent the whole night replaying that moment in your head.

How close he’d been.

How he’d looked at you.

How his voice had broken when he said you should leave.

And for once, you’d decided: enough.

Enough lingering after class.

Enough testing your luck.

Enough chasing something that could never happen.

So you came to class determined—sitting near the middle, hiding behind your laptop, doing everything you could not to look at him.

You took notes like a model student.

Didn’t stare.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t even glance up.

And the longer you stayed quiet, the more you felt it—

That shifting tension.

That faint pull across the room, like an invisible string tethering you to him no matter how hard you pretended otherwise.

Halfway through the lecture, you felt his gaze on you.

You didn’t look.

You kept your eyes fixed on your notes, forcing your hands to stay steady.

But every time he paused, every time his voice softened, you knew.

He was searching for you.

And when he realized you wouldn’t look up, something in the air went sharp.

You started packing your things the second he dismissed everyone.

Heart hammering, you told yourself you were doing the right thing.

You couldn’t keep torturing both of you.

But just as you stood, his voice stopped you cold:

“Miss.”

You froze, eyes still down.

Slowly, you lifted your gaze.

He was watching you—expression calm, but his jaw tense, like he was holding something back.

“Could you stay a moment?”

You opened your mouth, wanting to say maybe it’s better if I don’t.

But nothing came out.

So you just nodded, sinking back into your seat as everyone else filed out.

The silence was deafening.

He stood by the desk, one hand braced against it, the other shoved into his pocket.

And when he finally looked at you, you felt it—

Something had cracked.

He exhaled slowly.

“You didn’t look at me today.”

Your throat went tight.

“I—I thought it would be better if I stopped,” you whispered. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

He shut his eyes.

When he opened them again, his voice was rough.

“You didn’t.”

Your breath caught.

He let out a quiet laugh—small, self-mocking.

“You never have.”

He came around the desk, moving closer, close enough that you had to tilt your chin to meet his gaze.

“I tried,” he said, voice low. “To ignore it. To keep my distance. To be what I’m supposed to be.”

You felt your heart thudding so loud it almost drowned him out.

“But today,” he went on, his eyes searching yours, “when you wouldn’t even look at me—I realized…”

He trailed off, shaking his head like he hated himself for this.

“…I don’t want you to stop.”

Your lips parted, your whole body going weightless.

“I don’t—” you stammered, “I don’t understand.”

His jaw flexed.

“Yes, you do,” he said, softer.

And he was right.

Because you did.

You’d felt it every time he looked at you too long, every time his voice broke, every time he stepped back like he was afraid of himself.

He drew in a careful breath, steadying himself.

“You make this…impossible,” he admitted, voice raw. “I can’t think straight when you’re here.”

Your chest ached.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

He laughed again, that same quiet, disbelieving sound.

“I’m not.”

For one terrifying, beautiful second, you thought he was going to reach for you.

But he didn’t.

He just stood there, breathing hard, looking at you like you were the only thing in the world.

And you knew—

You could pretend all you wanted.

But neither of you was going to let this go.

You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until he stepped closer.

Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him.

Close enough that his scent—clean, warm, him—made your knees feel weak.

You sat frozen in your chair, fingers gripping the edge, lips parted slightly, your pulse thundering in your ears.

And he was just—

Looking at you.

Like he was trying to memorize the slope of your cheek, the curve of your mouth, the way your lashes fluttered every time you blinked.

Like he was about to do something unforgivable.

“Mr. Sim,” you whispered, barely able to hear yourself over your heartbeat.

He flinched.

Like you’d touched something inside him that was barely holding on.

His jaw clenched, his eyes darkened, and for the first time, he didn’t even try to hide it—

The way you affected him.

“Don’t say my name like that,” he said, voice rough, almost hoarse.

You swallowed, not backing down. “Like what?”

He exhaled a shaky breath, gaze flickering to your mouth.

“Like you know exactly what it does to me.”

Your lips parted. “I don’t,” you whispered. “Tell me.”

That was it.

That was when he broke.

“Are you trying to kill me?” he asked, stepping between your knees, one hand bracing on the back of your chair.

His other hand came to rest beside your hip, fingers curling into the desk so tight you thought the wood might splinter.

You looked up at him—doe-eyed, breathless, and so painfully unaware of how beautiful you looked like that, how inviting.

“I’m not doing anything,” you said softly.

His laugh was bitter, desperate. “Exactly.”

He leaned closer, his forehead almost touching yours, his breath warm on your lips.

“It’s the way you look at me,” he whispered. “The way you say my name. The way you walk into the room and completely ruin my ability to think.”

You were breathing so hard now, chest rising and falling, and he tracked every movement with his eyes like he couldn’t help it.

“Every time you stare at me like I’m something you want,” he said, voice dropping lower, more dangerous, “you make it harder to remember who I’m supposed to be to you.”

Your hands gripped the sides of the chair, trembling slightly.

“You’re my professor,” you whispered, barely able to speak.

He didn’t flinch.

“I know.”

His hand—just one—reached out, fingertips brushing the side of your jaw like he was testing himself.

“I’ve told myself it’s just admiration,” he murmured. “That I’m imagining the way you look at me. That I’m older. That this is a line I can’t cross.”

His fingers moved down, gently under your chin, tilting your face to his.

“But then you come in here looking at me like that—saying my name like that—and I think…”

He exhaled through his nose, like he was in pain.

“If she says it one more time, I’m going to forget everything.”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t blink.

You didn’t know who moved first—maybe it was both of you.

But your lips were just inches apart, and the air between you was unbearable.

You whispered it again— “Mr. Sim.”

And he groaned, head dropping forward against yours like he’d just lost the last bit of restraint he had.

“I told you not to,” he rasped.

And then, his hand slid behind your neck, trembling, like he needed to feel you.

Like he needed to be reminded this wasn’t just in his head.

He stops. Just short.

Just close enough that his breath brushes your lips.

“I shouldn’t,” he says, the words a broken prayer. “This is—this is wrong.”

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t let go.

And neither do you.

Because you’re both too far gone.

And you both know—

If you meet again like this one more time…

Neither of you is going to walk away untouched.

You weren’t even pretending anymore.

Neither was he.

The office was so quiet you could hear both your breaths—ragged, unsteady, like you’d run here.

His forehead rested against yours, his hand cupping the side of your neck. You felt how his fingers trembled, how he was fighting himself with every shaky exhale.

And you knew—if you shifted forward just a little—your lips would brush his.

It would be so easy.

Too easy.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice wrecked, “don’t look at me like that.”

You swallowed, blinking up at him, your lashes wet with something you couldn’t name.

“Like what?” you breathed.

His thumb grazed the edge of your jaw, tender and desperate all at once.

“Like you want me to forget who I am.”

You felt something crack deep inside you.

Because you did.

You wanted him to forget.

His eyes flicked down to your lips.

Then back to your eyes.

Then lower again.

And when he looked up the second time, you saw it—

That moment of surrender.

That single, shattering second where he decided he was done pretending.

His breath hitched, and he tilted your chin up, just a little, just enough to make you feel small and weightless.

“Don’t,” he whispered, voice fraying, “don’t look at my mouth.”

But you did.

You couldn’t help it.

You stared at the soft curve of his lower lip, the way it parted when he breathed out your name.

And he saw you do it.

Saw how you were falling apart.

Saw how you didn’t care anymore if it was wrong.

“I can’t…” he started, shaking his head, eyes screwed shut like he was trying to pull himself back.

“…I can’t be the one to—”

But you were already leaning in, your nose brushing his.

And when you whispered, “Then don’t,” he let out a sound so quiet and broken you felt it everywhere.

For one heartbeat, you hovered there—your lips a hair’s breadth from his.

His thumb swept across your cheekbone, a touch so gentle it made your eyes sting.

And he breathed, “God help me…”

You knew it was wrong.

He was your professor.

You were his student.

But in that moment, none of it mattered.

Because his mouth was right there—

And it looked so soft.

So good.

And you’d never wanted anything so badly in your life.

So you did the only thing you could.

You closed the last inch between you—

And kissed him.

For a split second, he didn’t move.

Like he couldn’t believe it was happening.

Then his hand slid into your hair, and he kissed you back.

Hard.

Deep.

Like he’d been starving for it.

Like he’d been waiting all this time for you to shatter him completely.

And in that quiet office, with your hands fisting the front of his shirt, you knew:

Nothing was ever going to be the same again.

You hadn’t meant to pull him so close.

But the second you felt his mouth on yours—warm, yielding, hungry—your hands moved without thinking.

One fisted in the front of his shirt, clutching the crisp fabric like you’d drown if you let go.

The other slid up to the back of his neck, fingertips curling into his hair.

He let out a sharp breath against your lips, like he was surprised—like he’d never meant to let it happen.

But he didn’t stop.

Didn’t even try.

You angled your head, kissing him deeper, and his hand on your waist tightened.

Then—god—he made the softest sound into your mouth.

A quiet, broken little noise—half sigh, half groan.

You felt it everywhere.

In your chest.

In your stomach.

Lower.

Your heart stuttered painfully.

Because that was when you knew—

It was over.

You’d thought you were just imagining it.

That this was all in your head.

But no.

You’d felt the way he melted against you when you kissed him like you meant it.

You’d heard the tiny sound he couldn’t hold back.

You’d felt the way his hand trembled where it gripped your side.

And it was the most beautiful thing you’d ever felt.

You pulled back, just enough to see him.

His lashes were low, his lips parted, his breath coming fast.

You were both trembling.

You searched his face—trying to find regret, disgust, anything that might make you come to your senses.

But there was nothing.

Just heat.

And something you were almost afraid to name.

Your heart was a wildfire now—fast, devouring, unstoppable.

You kissed him again.

Softer this time, but no less desperate.

And he kissed you back.

This time, he didn’t hold back at all.

His hand slid up your spine, splaying between your shoulder blades, pressing you flush against him.

You felt his heartbeat pounding in sync with yours.

And when you shifted in your chair, leaning into every point of contact, he made another sound—low, ragged, so vulnerable it made your head spin.

You broke away for a single, gasping breath.

Your foreheads rested together, your hands still tangled in his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure what you were apologizing for.

He shook his head minutely, eyes still closed.

“No.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “Don’t—don’t be sorry.”

You swallowed, your throat tight.

“This is wrong,” you breathed.

He finally looked at you, and the softness in his eyes almost undid you completely.

“I know.”

His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth—tracing where he’d kissed you.

“But god—” he whispered, voice breaking— “I don’t think I can stop.”

And you knew—

Neither could you.

After that, It was like your whole world had changed overnight.

No—scratch that.

It was like he had.

Jake didn’t just want you now—he needed you.

You’d catch it in the tiniest ways.

The way he’d watch you across the lecture hall, jaw clenched slightly behind his hand as you walked in wearing your usual hoodie and glasses, the same soft bun you always wore—but now, he knew what you looked like underneath.

He knew how flushed you got when he touched you.

He knew the sounds you made when you were close.

He knew everything.

And it made him feral.

“Mr. Sim?”

Your voice was a little too sweet, a little too innocent, as you stood by his desk after class.

You saw the way his jaw flexed.

His grip tightened on the edge of the table.

“Yes?”

His tone was so calm, but his eyes were anything but.

You leaned in, lowering your voice.

“I had a question about last night’s… material.”

His eye twitched.

You smiled like a menace.

He knew you were doing it on purpose now.

You had him wrapped around your little finger and he was suffering.

He cleared his throat, standing—just a little too close behind you as he gestured toward the board.

When his voice dropped lower—just for you—you nearly melted.

“Would you like to go over it again… at my place?”

The way he whispered it had no business being legal.

You flushed, eyes wide.

“Jake,” you whispered.

It slipped out without thinking.

He stilled.

Then leaned in slowly, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“You can’t say my name like that,” he muttered, voice tight. “Not in here.”

You barely made it through the rest of the day.

And that night, when you were curled in his bed again, he had you underneath him, your fingers tangled in his hair, whispering soft, messy “Jake—Jake—Jake—” into his mouth.

He was gone.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured against your skin.

“You’ve ruined me.”

Every kiss got more desperate.

Every “I missed you” pressed into your skin like a bruise.

And when you whimpered beneath him, your voice breaking, he finally said it.

Low.

Ragged.

Right into your mouth as you clung to him like he was the only thing anchoring you to the planet.

“I love you.”

Your whole body went still.

And then your arms tightened around his shoulders, breath catching in your throat.

“I love you too,” you whispered back.

He exhaled like he’d been holding it in for weeks.

And then he kissed you again, this time slower—more reverent.

Like he couldn’t believe he finally had you, and you were his.

From then on, it only got worse.

Or better.

Depending on who you asked.

Jake couldn’t stop touching you.

He’d pull you into his lap while you helped him grade papers.

He’d kiss your shoulder while you studied.

His fingers would find yours under café tables on campus, squeezing softly every time you passed by one of your classmates.

His hoodie? On you.

His cologne? All over your pillow.

His hands? Everywhere.

You tried to be subtle.

You tried.

But even Yoonchae caught on.

“Babe,” she whispered one morning, sipping her iced americano as you scrolled through your notes.

“You’re glowing.”

You looked up, confused.

“…What?”

“Like—‘just got laid by my professor and now I’m happy’ glowing.”

You nearly choked.

She smirked.

“I love it for you.”

You weren’t sure when it happened exactly.

The moment things shifted from messy obsession to soft, undeniable love.

Maybe it was the way he held your hand in his sleep.

Maybe it was when he kissed your forehead before class started.

Or maybe it was when you caught him smiling at your name on his phone, not even knowing you were watching.

But you knew it.

Jake wasn’t just your professor anymore.

He wasn’t just the man you dreamed about, longed for, ached for.

He was yours.

And you were his.