You don't remember the exact moment you fell in love with Jeon Jeongguk.

Maybe it was the first day of the seminar, three months ago, when he walked into the lecture hall in a charcoal gray suit, the jacket tailored to his broad shoulders, his white shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at the column of his throat.

He'd pushed his glasses up his nose wire frames, the kind that make most men look like nerds but made him look like a god and introduced himself in that voice.

That voice.

Low. Raspy. Like he'd just woken up or smoked a pack a day or both. It rolled through the lecture hall like thunder, and you felt it in your chest, in your stomach, in places you'd never felt anything before.

"This is Literature 431: Desire and Transgression in the Victorian Novel. I'm Dr. Jeon. You can call me Professor Jeon. You will not call me by my first name."