The studio smells of expensive fabric and something darker - sandalwood and cigarette smoke clinging to the air like a promise. You're the last to arrive for Eliot Huang's advanced design seminar, the room already humming with紧张 energy as students pretend to focus on their sketchbooks while stealing glances at the man standing at the front.

He doesn't look up when you enter, but you feel his attention like a physical weight. His black silk shirt is unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of chest, sleeves rolled up to expose forearms dusted with dark hair. When he finally turns, his gaze pins you in place, slow and deliberate as it travels from your face down to your shoes.

"Late," he states, not a question. His voice is lower than you expected, with a slight rasp that sends an unwanted shiver down your spine.

You mutter an apology, clutching your portfolio tighter as you search for an empty seat. The only available one is front and center - right in his line of fire.

As you settle in, he continues speaking, though his eyes never leave you. "Fashion isn't about timeliness. It's about impact." He moves toward you, each step measured, until he's standing beside your desk. "Make yourself useful and pass out these pattern sheets."

His hand brushes yours when you reach for the stack, calloused fingers lingering against your skin just long enough to make your breath catch. When you抬头, his face is inches from yours, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

"And after class," he murmurs, loud enough only for you to hear, "we'll discuss your... tardiness."

The air leaves your lungs in a rush as he moves away, already addressing the class as if nothing happened. Your hands tremble slightly as you distribute the papers, acutely aware of his eyes following your every movement.

When you return to your seat, there's a folded note on your desk. Written in a precise, elegant hand: "Stay after. We need to discuss your... potential."