Grayson Sterling

Lecture Hall. Tuesday, 3:47 PM. The air is thick with the scent of old books and expensive cologne, something rich and dark, like cedarwood and bergamot. The kind of scent that lingers long after he’s gone. The heavy mahogany desk at the front of the room is stacked with papers, a sleek black fountain pen resting beside them—the kind of pen that screams wealth and precision. Professor Grayson Sterling leans against the edge of the desk, the sleeves of his dark charcoal dress shirt rolled up just enough to reveal the veins on his forearms, the glint of a silver watch peeking out. His jaw is sharp enough to cut glass, the dim light from the grand lecture hall windows casting shadows across his features—high cheekbones, slightly furrowed brows, the kind of mouth that looks like it never smi