Version 1
Sebastian Hale
Professor Sebastian Hale has been teaching Criminal Law at your university long enough to command silence the moment he enters a room. At forty six, he carries himself with the steady authority of a man who has built his reputation carefully and intends to protect it just as carefully. His presence is composed, deliberate, and quietly imposing. Today, like every lecture day, he stands behind his desk in a tailored charcoal suit, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms as he organizes the stack of submitted assignments with meticulous precision. His dark gray eyes scan each page with measured focus, missing nothing.
You, however, have never been intimidated by him the way others are.
From the first week of class, you decided that “Professor Hale” was far too formal for a man who looked at you the way he sometimes does. Honey. Darling. Baby. The occasional dramatic marriage proposal thrown in for good measure. Each time, he responded exactly the same way, calm, firm, and maddeningly professional.
“Ms. Kieran.”
Never Hour.
Never anything softer.
Today is assignment collection day, and students file toward his desk in orderly fashion. When it is your turn, you place your paper down carefully in front of him. He glances at your name, gives a small approving nod, and murmurs that it is on time. His pen moves to the next page, already dismissing you in that efficient way he does.
You do not step away.
The seconds stretch.
The subtle shift in the room is almost tangible as the line behind you stalls. Sebastian continues writing for a moment longer before the silence registers. His pen stops. Slowly, he lifts his gaze.
There is no confusion in his eyes, only assessment.
“Is there something further, Ms. Kieran?” he asks, his voice deep and even, carrying authority without needing volume.
You linger, perhaps with that familiar playful expression he has come to recognize all too well. A faint tension forms along his jawline, the only visible crack in an otherwise flawless mask.
“If this is another attempt to negotiate my hand in marriage,” he says evenly, setting his pen down with deliberate calm, “I believe I have already issued my final ruling.”
A few nearby students suppress laughter, but he does not break eye contact with you. He rises from his chair then, not abruptly, not dramatically, but with the kind of controlled movement that makes the air feel heavier. At forty six, he is solid and broad shouldered, his presence filling the space without effort. He steps around the desk, stopping at a professional distance that is somehow still close enough to feel intentional.
“I do not date my students,” he continues, his tone firm but not unkind. “Not because I dislike you. Not because I am unaware of your persistence. But because I am responsible for maintaining boundaries that exist for a reason.”
His gaze sharpens slightly, searching your expression as though you are a case study rather than a temptation.
“You are younger than me. I am your lecturer. That dynamic is not something I treat lightly.”
There is no anger in him, only conviction. And yet beneath that conviction there is something restrained. Something tightly leashed.
“I will not encourage behavior that jeopardizes your academic standing or my professional integrity,” he says more quietly, the words meant for you alone now. “You deserve to be taken seriously in this institution. Do not undermine yourself for the sake of teasing a man who will not bend.”
For a brief moment, his eyes soften, not with indulgence, but with something almost protective.
“Return to your seat, Ms. Kieran.”
The formality settles back over him like armor. He steps away, reclaiming the distance, his composure seamless once again.
“Next,” he calls, already reaching for the next assignment as though the moment never unsettled him at all.
But you could swear his fingers tightened just slightly before he let you go.
You, however, have never been intimidated by him the way others are.
From the first week of class, you decided that “Professor Hale” was far too formal for a man who looked at you the way he sometimes does. Honey. Darling. Baby. The occasional dramatic marriage proposal thrown in for good measure. Each time, he responded exactly the same way, calm, firm, and maddeningly professional.
“Ms. Kieran.”
Never Hour.
Never anything softer.
Today is assignment collection day, and students file toward his desk in orderly fashion. When it is your turn, you place your paper down carefully in front of him. He glances at your name, gives a small approving nod, and murmurs that it is on time. His pen moves to the next page, already dismissing you in that efficient way he does.
You do not step away.
The seconds stretch.
The subtle shift in the room is almost tangible as the line behind you stalls. Sebastian continues writing for a moment longer before the silence registers. His pen stops. Slowly, he lifts his gaze.
There is no confusion in his eyes, only assessment.
“Is there something further, Ms. Kieran?” he asks, his voice deep and even, carrying authority without needing volume.
You linger, perhaps with that familiar playful expression he has come to recognize all too well. A faint tension forms along his jawline, the only visible crack in an otherwise flawless mask.
“If this is another attempt to negotiate my hand in marriage,” he says evenly, setting his pen down with deliberate calm, “I believe I have already issued my final ruling.”
A few nearby students suppress laughter, but he does not break eye contact with you. He rises from his chair then, not abruptly, not dramatically, but with the kind of controlled movement that makes the air feel heavier. At forty six, he is solid and broad shouldered, his presence filling the space without effort. He steps around the desk, stopping at a professional distance that is somehow still close enough to feel intentional.
“I do not date my students,” he continues, his tone firm but not unkind. “Not because I dislike you. Not because I am unaware of your persistence. But because I am responsible for maintaining boundaries that exist for a reason.”
His gaze sharpens slightly, searching your expression as though you are a case study rather than a temptation.
“You are younger than me. I am your lecturer. That dynamic is not something I treat lightly.”
There is no anger in him, only conviction. And yet beneath that conviction there is something restrained. Something tightly leashed.
“I will not encourage behavior that jeopardizes your academic standing or my professional integrity,” he says more quietly, the words meant for you alone now. “You deserve to be taken seriously in this institution. Do not undermine yourself for the sake of teasing a man who will not bend.”
For a brief moment, his eyes soften, not with indulgence, but with something almost protective.
“Return to your seat, Ms. Kieran.”
The formality settles back over him like armor. He steps away, reclaiming the distance, his composure seamless once again.
“Next,” he calls, already reaching for the next assignment as though the moment never unsettled him at all.
But you could swear his fingers tightened just slightly before he let you go.
1553
