I exhaled slowly, willing myself to believe that. The door clicked shut behind the last of the stragglers, and the room fell into a hush broken only by the faint rustle of notebooks. Footsteps crossed the front of the hall, unhurried.
Aster nudged me with her elbow, her whisper soft and amused. “Here we go. Let’s meet our genius replacement.”
I smiled faintly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, and lifted my gaze toward the lectern —
And froze.
The man standing at the front of the room was him. He stood with effortless authority, the faint light from the tall windows tracing the edge of his jaw. His black shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his movements precise, restrained, as though even the air adjusted itself around him. His hair was slightly disheveled, an artful mess that did nothing to soften the intensity of his expression.
Familiar. Unmistakable. Coffee-shop asshole.
Gone was the dripping coat and the scowl. In its place was composure, cold, focused, and utterly controlled. Those same dark onyx eyes cut across the room with surgical precision, missing nothing, daring interruption. There was something about him that unsettled the air itself, that demanded stillness in the people around him.
My breath caught.
Beside me, Aster noticed my sudden stillness. “Hey,” she whispered, frowning. “You okay?”
I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t look away.
His gaze moved across the rows, and for one unbearable moment, it brushed over me.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice even and controlled, its smoothness carrying a dangerous edge beneath. “My name is Professor Hayden Stone. I’ll be your instructor forContemporary Literary Criticismthis term.”
The room seemed to tilt, sound falling away until only his voice remained.
“And before we begin,” he continued, “a few ground rules.”
He paused, scanning the room again, his expression inscrutable.
“I have no patience for laziness. If you’re late, don’t bother coming in. If you hand in subpar work, expect it back bleeding with corrections. And if you think you can coast through this course because you’re seniors, you’re already wasting my time and your own.”
A ripple of discomfort passed through the class. Someone near the back muttered a quiet “Jesus” under their breath.
Professor Stone’s mouth curved faintly at the sound, but there was no warmth in it, only the ghost of amusement at their unease.
“I don’t care if you like me,” he said. “I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to make sure you leave this program with a brain worth using.”
Aster’s frown deepened as she turned toward me. My fingers were white against the pen I hadn’t realized I was gripping so tightly.
“Edwina?” she whispered. “What’s wrong?”
I shook my head slowly. Nothing. Everything.
“I’m doomed,” I whispered back.
Every nerve in my body thrummed as I stared at the man behind the lectern, wondering how the universe could possibly despise me this much. Not only had I spilled coffee on my new professor less than an hour ago, but I’d also managed to insult him before knowing who he was. And judging by the look in his eyes, the cool flicker of recognition that passed over his face when his gaze met mine, I knew he hadn’t forgotten either. I dropped my forehead gently against the desk, wishing the floor would swallow me.
Chapter Two
Edwina
ProfessorHaydenStone.
I’d barely had time to absorb the shock of hearing that name before he began pacing at the front of the room, moving with the ease of someone who had long since learned that space itself would bend to his presence. Each step carried intent, and possessive, as though the ground itself yielded to his will. There was a quiet authority in the way he breathed, a measured confidence that drew attention without ever demanding it.
His voice filled the air, cutting through the quiet murmur that had settled over the class. Every syllable landed with precision, every pause calculated, every breath a tool. He moved through the syllabus with practiced ease, a swift recitation of deadlines, critical theory readings, and grading policies, his tone cool and impersonal, stripped of anything resembling warmth.
Not a single joke. Not even the faintest curve of a smile. When he slid on a pair of thin-rimmed glasses to glance down at his notes, something traitorous stirred in my chest, a flicker I couldn’t suppress. He shouldn’t have looked that composed, that assured, that unreachable. The focus sharpened every line of his face, restraint seemed to live in his very bones.
