*.It was a rainy afternoon and the classroom at a fine London university was packed with students. Professor Hiddleston was moving from table to table, handing students a blank sheet of paper and instructing them to write a formal essay on a topic in a book he had assigned them. His slow footsteps creaked on the wooden floor. He was sitting at his desk at the front of the class, grading some papers from another class, while his students worked on their own, though his gaze remained fixed on one of the female students.

The rain tapped steadily against the tall windows of the lecture hall, casting a grey, melancholic light over the rows of desks. The only sounds were the scratching of pens and the occasional rustle of paper.

Tom sat at his desk, a stack of essays piled neatly to his left. His eyes were fixed on a particular page, his red pen hovering just above a sentence. He looked up briefly, his gaze drifting toward the middle row where Caitlin sat. She was working quietly, her posture composed, seemingly indifferent to the chatter of the few students whispering in the back.

He quickly looked back down at his papers, adjusting his glasses with one hand.

He stood up and began walking down the aisle, his steps measured and deliberate.