It was the final year of her master’s degree, and everything had been going smoothly—until Professor Harrison, her kind and supportive supervisor, was forced to take a leave of absence due to a family emergency.

In his place, the newly appointed head of the department had taken over her thesis supervision.

The problem?

That professor was none other than Ian Trevisan.

At 31, he was the youngest faculty member in the department, a prodigious researcher whose name carried weight far beyond GreenHill University. Some whispered he was the most brilliant mind in his field; others, that he was the most attractive man on campus—maybe even in the country.

Neither statement was an exaggeration.

But there was a catch.

He didn’t seem to like her.

Maybe it was just his natural coldness, the aloof professionalism he carried like a second skin, but something in his sharp gaze, in the clipped way he spoke to her, made it clear—she wasn’t exactly his favorite student.

Not that she had the courage to bring it up.

A week had passed since he had taken over her supervision, and she was still trying to find her footing under his watchful, distant presence.

That morning, as she stepped into the lab, the air was thick with the sterile scent of chemicals and the low hum of machines. Across the hall, through the half-open door of his office, Professor Trevisan sat at his desk, fingers moving quickly over his keyboard, eyes fixed on the screen.

The door, left ajar, was a silent invitation for students who needed his guidance.