#professorxstudent

Professor Kento Nanami.

Even his name sounds like poetry in your mind, though you'd never dare say it aloud. Not like that. Not with the weight of longing you carry.

You steal another glance, your dark eyes flickering up from beneath your lashes. He's grading papers, his strong jaw set in concentration, blonde hair falling perfectly across his forehead despite the late hour. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms that have no business being as distracting as they are. There's a tiredness around his eyes that makes your chest ache—a weariness that seems to live in his bones.

You know you should look away. You know this crush is foolish, impossible, and inappropriate in every conceivable way. He's your professor. He's married. He's completely, utterly out of reach.

Except.

Except you've heard the whispers in the faculty break room when you're there during your work-study hours. You've seen the way he never mentions his wife, how there's no photo on his desk, how he stays late at the university almost every night as if he has nowhere else to be.

You've noticed the pale line on his ring finger where a wedding band used to sit.

"Still here?"

Your heart stops. You look up to find Nanami standing beside your table, his hazel eyes warm despite their exhaustion. This close, you can smell his cologne—something woody and clean that makes your head spin.

"I—yes, Professor Nanami," you manage, your voice barely above a whisper. Heat crawls up your neck, spreading across your brown cheeks. You're grateful for your darker complexion; maybe he won't notice the blush. "Just finishing some practice problems."

He glances at your textbook, then at the notebook where you've worked through problem after problem in your neat, careful handwriting. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "You're in my business analytics class, aren't you? Front row, left side."

Your breath catches. He's noticed you. Actually noticed you, not just as another face in a lecture hall of sixty students.

"Yes, sir." You tuck a curl behind your ear, suddenly hyperaware of how you must look—your oversized university hoodie, your leggings, and your natural hair pulled back in a simple puff. You're not like the other girls who take his class, the ones who wear makeup and fashionable clothes and laugh confidently at his dry jokes.

"You don't need to call me 'sir,'" he says, and there's something almost gentle in his tone. "Professor is fine. Or Nanami, when we're not in class."

The informality feels dangerous. Intimate.

"Okay... Nanami." His name tastes like honey and heartbreak on your tongue.

He pulls out the chair across from you—doesn't ask permission, just sits, as if this is normal, as if your world isn't tilting on its axis. "May I?"

You nod, not trusting your voice.

"You're one of my strongest students," he says, leaning back in the chair. He looks even more tired up close, with shadows beneath his eyes that speak of sleepless nights. "Your last exam was perfect. Not just correct—insightful. You see patterns others miss."

Pride blooms warm in your chest, but it's tangled up with something more complicated. "Thank you. I... I really enjoy your class."

I really enjoy watching you teach. I really enjoy the way your voice sounds when you explain complex concepts. I really enjoy existing in the same space as you, even though it hurts.

"Statistics isn't usually something people enjoy," he observes, that almost-smile returning. "What draws you to it?"

You fidget with your pen, trying to organize your thoughts. This is safer ground—academics, not feelings. "I like that numbers don't lie. They tell stories if you know how to read them. Everything makes sense eventually, if you look at it the right way."

Something shifts in his expression. "I wish that were true for everything."

The weight in those words settles between you like a third presence. You shouldn't ask. You shouldn't pry. You should gather your books and leave and maintain the professional distance that's supposed to exist between student and teacher.

"Are you okay?" The question escapes before you can stop it.

Nanami's eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you see past the professional facade to something raw underneath. "That's... a complicated question."

"You don't have to answer," you say quickly. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"No." He holds up a hand. "It's kind. Most people don't ask." He's quiet for a moment, seeming to weigh his words. "My wife and I are separated. Have been for six months. The divorce will be final soon."

Your heart does something painful in your chest—a lurch of sympathy mixed with something you're ashamed to name. Hope.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, and you mean it. The pain in his eyes is real, and you want to take it away even as a selfish part of you catalogues this information, turns it over, and examines what it might mean.

"Don't be. It was a long time coming. We married young and grew into different people. She wants things I can't give her. I want..." He trails off, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. This is inappropriate. You're my student, and I'm—"

"Human," you finish softly. "You're human. It's okay to be sad."

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and you feel seen in a way that's both thrilling and terrifying. "You're very kind. And wise beyond your years."

"I'm twenty-three," you say, a little defensively. "Not that young."

"No," he agrees. "Not that young." But there's something in his tone that suggests he's reminding himself of something, drawing a line he won't cross.

The moment stretches between you, fragile as spun glass.

"I should go," you say, even though every fiber of your being wants to stay. "It's late."

"Let me walk you to your car," Nanami says, standing. "It's dark out."

"I don't have a car. I live in the graduate housing, just across campus."

His brow furrows. "Then I'll walk you home."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to." The words are simple, but they land with weight.

You pack your books slowly, hyperaware of him waiting, of the way he holds the library door open for you, and of how his presence beside you feels both comfortable and electric as you step into the cool night air.

The campus is quiet at this hour, most students are either in their dorms or at parties you've never been invited to. You've always been more comfortable with books than people, more at ease in libraries than bars. It's made college lonely sometimes, but right now, walking beside Nanami under the streetlights, you don't feel lonely at all.

"Can I ask you something?" His voice breaks the comfortable silence.

"Of course."

"Why statistics? What do you want to do with it?"

You smile, your passion for your field overriding your shyness. "Data science. I want to work in healthcare analytics and help hospitals and clinics use their data to improve patient outcomes. There are so many disparities in healthcare, especially for Black women, and I think better data analysis could help identify and address those gaps."

Nanami stops walking, turning to face you. "That's remarkable. Truly."

The admiration in his voice makes your chest tight. "It's just... what I care about."

"Don't diminish it. The world needs more people who care about things that matter." He pauses. "You're going to do extraordinary things."

You duck your head, overwhelmed by the sincerity in his words. "Thank you."

You start walking again, and too soon, you're standing in front of your building. You don't want this to end. You don't want to go back to being just another student in his class, to watching him from afar and pretending your heart doesn't race when he calls on you.

"Thank you for walking me home," you say, clutching your books to your chest like armor.

"Of course." He hesitates, and you can see him wrestling with something. "I meant what I said. About your work. If you ever want to discuss research opportunities or graduate programs, my office hours are—"

"Tuesdays and Thursdays, 2 to 4," you finish, then flush. "I mean, I've seen it on your syllabus."

A real smile crosses his face this time, transforming his features. "Right. The syllabus."

You should go inside. You should say goodnight and maintain boundaries and not let yourself fall any deeper into this impossible thing.

"Goodnight, Nanami."

"Goodnight." He says your name then, your actual name, and it sounds like music.

You make yourself turn away, make yourself walk to the door, and make yourself not look back even though you want to with every atom of your being.

Inside, you lean against the wall and let out a shaky breath. This is dangerous. This feeling growing in your chest is dangerous. He's your professor. He's going through a divorce. He's vulnerable, and you're young, and this is exactly the kind of situation that ends in heartbreak.

But when you close your eyes, all you can see is the way he looked at you under the streetlights, like you were something precious.

It becomes a pattern.

You stay late at the library. He finds you. Sometimes you talk about statistics, about your research interests, and about the papers he's grading. Sometimes you talk about other things—books you've read, places you've traveled, dreams you've had.

You learn that he wanted to be a baker before he became a teacher. That he makes bread when he can't sleep. That his apartment is too quiet and too empty, and he doesn't know how to live in it alone.

He learns that you're the first in your family to go to college. That you're terrified of failing, of not being good enough, of taking up space you don't deserve. That you write poetry you never show anyone.

The conversations feel like secrets, like something you're both stealing from the universe.

You know it's wrong. You know you should stop. But you're addicted to the way he listens to you like your words matter, the way he sees past your shyness to the person underneath, and the way he makes you feel brilliant and brave and beautiful without ever saying those words directly.

And you see him too—the loneliness he carries, the way he's lost himself somewhere in the wreckage of his marriage, and the quiet strength that keeps him showing up day after day even when he's exhausted.

You want to fix him. You want to hold him. You want things you have no right to want.

It happens on a Thursday.

You're in his office during office hours, ostensibly to discuss your final project proposal. But the conversation has drifted, as it always does, into deeper waters.

"Read me one," he says suddenly.

You look up from your laptop. "What?"

"One of your poems. You mentioned you write poetry. I'd like to hear one."

Your heart hammers. "They're not very good."

"I doubt that's true."

You bite your lip, then pull up your phone with trembling fingers. You scroll through your notes app, past all the poems about him that you could never share, until you find one that's safe. Safer, at least.

"Okay," you whisper. This one is called 'Inheritance.'"

You read, your voice soft but steady:

"My grandmother's hands knew cotton and calluses, knew the weight of water carried miles, knew how to make something from nothing. She gave me her cheekbones and her stubbornness. her recipe for cornbread and her refusal to break. I carry her in my DNA. in every equation I solve, in every door I open that was closed to her. I am her wildest dream. and I am terrified of waking up."

The silence when you finish is deafening. You can't look at him; you can't bear to see disappointment or pity or polite disinterest.

"That's beautiful," Nanami says quietly. "Truly beautiful. The way you connect personal history to present ambition, the metaphor of dreaming and waking—it's powerful."

You finally meet his eyes, and the emotion there steals your breath.

"You're remarkable," he continues. "I hope you know that. Not just as a student. As a person. As a writer. As—" He stops himself, jaw tightening.

"As what?" The question is barely audible.

He stands abruptly, moving to the window, his back to you. "I can't do this."

Your stomach drops. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"No." He turns, and the look on his face is anguished. "You haven't done anything wrong. That's the problem. You're perfect, and kind, and brilliant, and I—" He runs a hand through his hair. "I'm your professor. You're my student. I'm seventeen years older than you. I'm still married, technically. This is wrong in every possible way."

"This?" Your voice is small. "What is 'this'?"

"Don't make me say it." His voice is rough. "Please don't make me say it."

But you need to hear it. You need to know you're not imagining this thing between you, this pull that feels like gravity.

"Say it," you whisper, standing on shaking legs.

Nanami closes his eyes. "I have feelings for you. Feelings I have no right to have. And every time we talk, every time you look at me with those eyes, every time you share something precious like that poem, I fall a little more, and I can't—I can't do that to you. You deserve better than a broken man going through a divorce. You deserve someone whole."

Your heart is breaking and soaring at the same time. "What if I don't want someone whole? What if I want you?"

"Don't." The word is almost a plea. "Don't say that. You're twenty-three. You have your whole life ahead of you. I'm—"

"You're what? Sad? Lonely? Going through something hard?" You take a step closer. "That doesn't make you broken. That makes you human."

"I'm your professor."

"The semester ends in three weeks."

"I'm still married."

"You said the divorce is almost final."

"I'm too old for you."

"I don't care." Your voice is stronger now, fueled by something fierce and desperate. "I don't care about any of that. I care about you. I care about the way you listen, like my words matter. I care about how you see me—really see me—when most people look right through me. I care about—"

"Stop." He holds up a hand, and you can see he's trembling. "Please stop. Because if you keep talking, I'm going to do something we'll both regret."

"What if I wouldn't regret it?"

The air between you is electric, charged with everything unsaid. You can see the war happening behind his eyes—duty versus desire, propriety versus passion.

"You should go," he says finally, and the words sound like they're being torn from him.

"Nanami—"

"Please." His voice breaks on the word. "Please go. Before I—before we—just please."

You gather your things with shaking hands, tears burning behind your eyes. At the door, you pause.

"For what it's worth," you say without turning around, "I think you're worth wanting. Even broken. Especially broken."

You don't wait for a response. You walk out, and you don't let yourself cry until you're back in your apartment, alone with the weight of your confession and his rejection.

You don't go to the library anymore. You attend his class but sit in the back, avoid his eyes, and turn in your assignments online. It hurts too much to be near him, to pretend everything is normal when your heart is a bruise that won't heal.

He doesn't seek you out. You tell yourself that's good, that's right, that's how it should be.

But you miss him. God, you miss him.

The semester ends. You ace his final exam and pour all your heartbreak into your final project—a comprehensive analysis of healthcare disparities that earns you a perfect score and a two-word comment: "Exceptional work."

Not "See me." Not "We should talk." Just professional acknowledgment of professional work.

You tell yourself it's over. You tell yourself to move on.

Summer arrives, hot and humid. You stay on campus for a research internship, spending long hours in the lab, trying to lose yourself in data and analysis.

You're walking home from the library one evening—you've started going back now that there's no chance of running into him—when you see a familiar figure sitting on a bench near the fountain.

Nanami.

He looks different. Lighter, somehow. The shadows under his eyes are less pronounced. He's wearing jeans and a simple t-shirt, and there's no ring on his finger, not even a tan line anymore.

You should walk past. You should leave him alone. You should protect your healing heart.

But your feet carry you toward him before your brain can intervene.

"Hi," you say softly.

He looks up, and his face transforms. "Hi."

"Can I sit?"

"Please."

You sit, leaving space between you, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

"The divorce is final," he says finally. "As of last week."

"How do you feel?"

"Relieved. Sad. Free. Guilty for feeling free." He turns to look at you. "I've missed you."

Your breath catches. "You told me to go."

"I know. I had to. It was the right thing to do while you were still my student, while I was still married. But—" He pauses. "You're not my student anymore."

"No," you agree. "I'm not."

"And I'm not married anymore."

"No."

"I'm still seventeen years older than you. I'm still a mess. I still have no business asking you this." He shifts to face you fully. "But I can't stop thinking about you. I've tried. I've tried to be reasonable and responsible and all the things I'm supposed to be. But every time I make bread, I wonder if you'd like it. Every time I read something interesting, I want to tell you about it. Every time I see someone sitting in the library, I hope it's you."

Tears prick your eyes. Nanami—"

"I'm not asking for forever. I'm not asking for anything you're not ready to give. But I'm asking—if you still feel the way you felt in my office that day—if you'd be willing to try to see if this thing between us is real or just—"

"It's real," you interrupt. "It's so real it terrifies me."

He reaches out slowly, giving you time to pull away, and takes your hand. His palm is warm, slightly rough, and the touch sends electricity up your arm.

"I can't promise I won't hurt you," he says quietly. "I'm still figuring out how to be a person again. But I can promise I'll try. I can promise I'll be honest. I can promise that when I look at you, I see someone extraordinary."

You squeeze his hand, tears spilling over. "I see you too. All of you. The broken parts and the healing parts and the parts that are still figuring it out."

"Is that enough?" His voice is vulnerable, uncertain. "Is that something you want?"

You think about your grandmother, about making something from nothing. You think about the poems you've written, about being terrified of waking up from a dream. You think about how sometimes the bravest thing is to reach for what you want, even when it's complicated, even when it's messy, even when there are no guarantees.

"Yes," you whisper. "It's enough. You're enough."

He cups your face with his free hand, thumb brushing away your tears. "Can I kiss you?"

"Please."

He leans in slowly, and when his lips meet yours, it's gentle and sweet and tastes like new beginnings. It's not perfect—your glasses bump his face, and you're both a little awkward, a little uncertain. But it's real, and it's yours, and it's worth every moment of heartbreak that led you here.

When you pull back, you're both smiling.

"So what now?" you ask.

"Now?" He threads his fingers through yours. "Now we take it slow. We figure it out as we go. We're honest with each other. And maybe—if you're free—I could make you dinner? I make excellent bread."

You laugh, the sound bright and free. "I'd like that."

"Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow."

You sit together on the bench as the sun sets, hands intertwined, talking about everything and nothing. It's not perfect. There will be challenges ahead—whispers and judgment, the complexity of your age difference, and the wounds you're both still healing.

But right now, in this moment, it's enough to be here together. To have chosen each other despite everything. To be brave enough to try.

He was never supposed to be yours. But maybe, just maybe, he could be.

And maybe that's not an ending, but a beginning.

Epilogue

Two years later, you're defending your master's thesis. Nanami sits in the back row, and when you finish your presentation to thunderous applause, his proud smile is the only one you see.

Afterward, he takes you to dinner at the restaurant where you had your first official date. Over bread he baked that morning and wine you're finally old enough to drink without feeling self-conscious, he reaches across the table and takes your hand.

"I'm proud of you," he says. "So incredibly proud."

"I couldn't have done it without you."

"Yes, you could have. You're brilliant all on your own. But I'm honored I got to be here for it."

You squeeze his hand, this man who saw you when you felt invisible, who waited until it was right, who chose you every day even when it was complicated.

"I love you," you say, not for the first time, but it never gets old.

"I love you too." He pauses. "I have something for you."

He pulls out a small box, and your heart stops.

"It's not what you think," he says quickly, seeing your expression. "Not yet. When I ask you that question, I want you to have your PhD, your career, everything you've worked for. I want you to choose me from a place of completeness, not dependence."

He opens the box to reveal a delicate necklace—a small golden key on a fine chain.

"But I wanted you to have this. As a promise. You unlocked something in me I thought was closed forever. You taught me that broken things can heal, that it's never too late to start again, and that love doesn't have to be perfect to be real."

Your eyes fill with tears as he fastens it around your neck.

"Thank you," you whisper. "For waiting. For trying. For seeing me."

"Thank you," he responds, "for being brave enough to see me back."

You kiss across the table, and it still feels like magic, like coming home, like the best decision you ever made.

He was never supposed to be yours.

But he is.

And you are his.

And that's more than enough.

You were just a student, slogging through the humdrum routine of college. It wasn’t that you lacked ambition; it was more that the classes drained the life out of you. Endless lectures, uninspired professors, and subjects that seemed to have no bearing on your future—all of it made you feel like you were wasting your time. Dropping out felt less like quitting and more like freeing yourself.

At least, that’s what you told yourself as you clutched the sign-out paper in your hand.

You stepped into the classroom, fully prepared to finalize your decision, already picturing the fresh start awaiting you beyond these dull walls. Aka, your closest friend, sat sprawled in his seat, lazily drumming a pen against his notebook. His sharp gaze flicked to the form you were holding.

“Are you really sure about this?” he asked, sitting up a little straighter now.

You tapped the paper for emphasis, trying to sound more confident than you felt.

“I was sure. But now…” You sighed, shoulders slumping as you dropped into your seat. “I’m not so sure anymore.”

Aka studied you for a moment, then shrugged as if to say, Your choice. You leaned forward, resting your head against your folded arms, your mind drifting.

The door slammed shut, startling you out of your thoughts. Your e/c eyes snapped to the front of the room. The usual chatter of students fizzled out, replaced by a sudden, weighty silence. You straightened in your seat, trying to figure out what had stolen everyone’s attention.

And then you saw him.

The man who stepped into the room wasn’t just attractive; he was magnetic, commanding. His golden blonde hair looked as if it had been styled by fate itself, perfectly tousled yet deliberate. Broad shoulders filled out a crisp white shirt that clung in just the right places, hinting at the kind of physique that made you want to stare—and maybe touch, if you were bold enough. His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass, and his face… oh, his face. It was almost unfair. Sculpted, intense, and achingly handsome.

Your breath caught. Was it possible to fall in love in three seconds?

The weight of his presence settled over the room as he walked toward the desk, his steps measured and confident. Adjusting his glasses with a smooth motion, he glanced at the silent crowd of students. His gaze swept across the room, and for one heart-stopping moment, it landed on you. You swore your heart skipped a beat, and you quickly looked down, embarrassed by how obvious your staring must have been.

“Good morning, everyone,” he said, his deep, velvety voice breaking the silence. “I’m your new math professor. Professor Nanami.”

Nanami. His name rolled off his tongue like poetry. You couldn’t help but repeat it in your head, letting the sound of it linger.

He turned toward the digital board, writing his name with precise strokes. Each movement of his arm seemed deliberate, the fabric of his shirt stretching just slightly over his biceps. Your eyes lingered, your thoughts slipping into dangerous territory.

Focus, you scolded yourself, tearing your gaze away. But it was impossible. Every time he spoke, every time he shifted his stance, your attention snapped back to him. His voice was steady, calm, and deeply resonant, like he could recite the quadratic formula and make it sound like the most captivating story in the world.

You blinked, realizing you hadn’t absorbed a single word he’d said. Instead, your mind was stuck replaying the way his blonde hair caught the light or how the faintest smile tugged at his lips as he explained something on the board.

He cleared his throat, drawing your attention back. “This is homework for the next lesson.”

Wait. Homework? You frowned, glancing around. Was class over already? The students around you were shuffling papers and closing laptops, confirming your worst suspicion. You’d just spent an entire lecture ogling the professor.

“You didn’t hear a word, did you?” Aka’s voice startled you. He was grinning, his expression dripping with amusement.

“Shut up,” you muttered, hastily packing your bag. Your cheeks were burning, and you avoided looking at Aka’s smug face.

“Damn, he’s hot,” he whispered, leaning closer.

You froze, heat rushing to your face. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you stammered, fumbling with your notebook.

“Sure you don’t.” Aka smirked knowingly, but you were too busy trying to avoid making eye contact with him—or anyone, for that matter.

Against your better judgment, your gaze drifted back to the professor. Nanami was gathering his own materials, his focus elsewhere. But then, as if sensing your stare, he glanced up—and locked eyes with you.

Your breath hitched. His expression was calm, unreadable, but something about the way he held your gaze sent a shiver down your spine. It felt like he was seeing right through you, peeling back layers you hadn’t even realized were there.

Panic surged. You quickly looked away, your heart hammering in your chest. Fumbling to sling your bag over your shoulder, you practically bolted for the door.

“Y/n! Wait up!” Aka called after you, but you barely heard him.

Outside, the cool air hit your face, but it did little to calm the storm inside you. Your mind raced with a dozen thoughts, all centered on one person.

What the hell just happened? You exhaled shakily, clutching the strap of your bag as you walked away.

One thing was certain: leaving college might not be as easy as you thought.

_______

“So, you’re not leaving?” Aka’s voice pulled you from your thoughts as the two of you walked toward class.

Your eyes twitched at his question, a little irritated. “As I said, I don’t know,” you muttered, clutching your notebook tighter.

Aka shot you a sidelong glance, but thankfully, he didn’t push the matter. You flipped open your notebook as you walked, scanning the homework Professor Nanami had assigned.

It had been a few weeks since Nanami had started teaching your class, and while you’d initially hoped to pull yourself together, the opposite seemed to happen. Your focus had gotten better, yes, but only on him. Your grades, on the other hand, were slipping fast.

“Normally, you’re not that bad at math,” Aka said casually, though his tone had a teasing edge.

The comment hit a nerve. “Oh, shut up, Aka,” you snapped, stuffing the notebook back into your bag.

As you entered the classroom and found your usual seats, the tension in your chest only tightened. It didn’t help when Nanami walked in a moment later, his calm and commanding presence filling the room as easily as his smooth, dark voice filled the air. He began lecturing almost immediately, his tone steady and deliberate, the kind of voice that could draw anyone in—even someone uninterested in math.

But for you, it wasn’t the lesson itself that had you hooked. It was the way his shirt hugged his broad shoulders, the faint stretch of fabric when he gestured at the board. The way his jaw tensed slightly when he thought about something, and how his glasses would slide down his nose just enough for him to push them back up with a precise touch.

Your cheeks flushed as you realized you were staring—again. You ducked your head and tried to focus, but it was no use. By the end of class, you were as distracted as ever.

The sound of students packing their bags snapped you out of your daze. You sighed hard, slumping into your chair. The same problem, every time.

“Ms. L/n. Could you stay for a moment?”

The sound of your name startled you. Your head snapped up to see Nanami looking directly at you. His voice was calm, professional, but his gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary.

“O-of course,” you stammered, your heart skipping a beat.

Aka gave you a knowing look as he slung his bag over his shoulder. “Good luck,” he whispered, shooting you a smirk as he left. You glared at him, but it didn’t matter—your attention quickly shifted back to Nanami as the door closed behind the last student.

“L/n,” he began, his voice softer now, almost careful. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you for some time.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion. “About what?”

He leaned back against his desk, crossing his arms in a way that only made his muscles more pronounced. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, exposing strong forearms that made your stomach flip.

“I’ve noticed your grades in math have dropped significantly,” he said, concern clear in his tone. “Not so much that you can’t graduate, but it’s still worrying. You’ve always been a strong student in this subject. Are my lectures not helping you?”

The genuine worry in his voice made you feel guilty, but it also sent a pang of something else through you—something warmer, more dangerous. You chuckled softly, trying to brush it off.

“Oh no, Professor Nanami,” you said, shaking your head. “Your lectures are… very informative and easy to understand. It’s just that I’ve been… distracted.”

His gaze sharpened at your words, and he tilted his head slightly. “Distracted?” he echoed, his voice lower now, almost like he was testing the word.

You nodded, biting your lip. “Yeah. It’s… complicated.”

He hummed, scratching his jaw thoughtfully, his golden eyes never leaving yours. “Is it love?”

Your heart skipped a beat, your eyes widening. “W-what?”

He adjusted his glasses, his expression calm but curious. “Is it love? I’ve seen students get distracted by relationships before. It’s not uncommon.”

You swallowed hard, heat rushing to your face. How could he say something like that so casually? You forced out a nervous laugh. “Something like that,” you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper.

Nanami’s gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it grew more intense. “Can I ask who that person is?”

You froze. Your mind raced. Was that even an appropriate question for him to ask? Your heart hammered in your chest, your voice caught in your throat. “I… isn’t that a bit personal?” you managed, your voice shaky.

His jaw tightened slightly, and his tone grew serious. “I apologize if it’s intrusive, but… I need to know.”

You stared at him, your thoughts spiraling. The room suddenly felt smaller, the air thicker. His words hung between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. Did he already know? Was he testing you?

Your heart beat faster as the silence stretched. You opened your mouth, but no words came out. Finally, you stood, clutching the edge of your desk for support.

“Professor Nanami, I…” You hesitated, your cheeks burning. His eyes were locked on yours, calm but intense, as if he could see straight through you. “I think… I think you already know the answer.”

His expression shifted just slightly—his lips parted, his brow furrowing for a fraction of a second before he composed himself. He stood straighter, his presence even more overwhelming as he stepped closer.

“L/n,” he said, his voice low, almost a murmur now. “You’ve been distracted… because of me?”

You couldn’t bring yourself to answer aloud. Instead, you nodded, your pulse racing as you held his gaze.

For a moment, the room was silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioning. The tension between you crackled, heavy and electric. Nanami exhaled slowly, his hand brushing over the edge of his desk.

“This… isn’t appropriate,” he said finally, his voice strained, like he was forcing himself to say the words. But he didn’t move away. If anything, he seemed closer, his eyes flicking to your lips for just a second before returning to your gaze.

“I know,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I’m sorry.”

He sighed, running a hand through his blonde hair, a rare crack in his otherwise composed demeanor. “You’re not the only one who’s distracted,” he admitted softly, his words barely audible.

Your eyes widened, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he pushed away from the desk and took a single step closer.

“L/n…” His voice was quieter now, his usual control faltering just enough for you to notice.

You stood, your knees unsteady, the desk between you no longer feeling like a barrier. “Professor Nanami,” you said, your voice trembling. “I—”

Before you could finish, his hand brushed against yours on the desk, a tentative touch that sent sparks racing up your arm. The tension between you snapped like a taut wire as his other hand came up, his fingers grazing your cheek.

Your breath hitched, and in an instant, his lips were on yours. The kiss was firm, deliberate, yet filled with unspoken restraint. Your hands clutched at the edge of the desk for support as his warmth consumed you, his lips moving against yours with a slow intensity that made your head spin.

The world outside the room faded away, the only thing that mattered was the way his body leaned into yours, his hand cupping your jaw as if he was afraid to let go. Your fingers found the front of his shirt, clutching the fabric desperately as the kiss deepened.

But then, he pulled back, his breath uneven, his forehead resting against yours.

“We can’t,” he murmured, his voice hoarse and strained, though his hand lingered on your cheek. “This is… unprofessional.”

Your heart was racing, your lips tingling from the kiss. “I know,” you whispered, your voice shaky. “But I don’t care.”

He closed his eyes, his jaw tightening as he struggled with his composure. Finally, he stepped back, putting distance between you. His hand fell to his side, though you could still feel the ghost of his touch.

“This conversation never happened,” he said, his voice firmer now, though there was a flicker of something raw in his eyes. “Focus on your studies, L/n. Don’t let this distract you.”

You nodded, your chest tight, your emotions a whirlwind as you grabbed your bag and headed for the door. But as you reached for the handle, you glanced back over your shoulder.

Nanami stood there, his expression unreadable, but his eyes followed you with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

“Goodbye, Professor Nanami,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

You walked out, the door clicking shut behind you. But the heat of his kiss lingered on your lips, and the memory of his touch burned in your mind.

This wasn’t over.

Didn't understood the hype over Nanami but now I do and I am obsessed. Re-watching JJK btw.

Maybe writing a second part with smut👀

💫

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