“That’s…one interpretation,” I managed after a beat, each word measured, careful. “But I think criticism doesn’t have to replace the artist’s voice. It can connect to it, build on it. A bridge, not a theft.”
Something faint and dangerous flickered across his face. The ghost of a smile, the kind that never reached his eyes. “You think,” Professor Stone said, his voice dipped in quiet irony. “How generous of you.”
Then he turned away, dismissing me without another glance.
The rest of the lecture unfolded in a blur. His voice filled the room, measured in cadence, exact in phrasing, and laced with a quiet authority that demanded attention without ever raising its volume. Yet it washed over me like the dull hum of distant machinery. Every word became background noise to the fire still curling beneath my ribs. Embarrassment burned first, then anger, sharper and cleaner. He had made me feel small, and I hated him for how easily he had done it.
When the clock struck ten, the scrape of chairs and the rustle of papers broke the silence that had settled over the room. Students began filing out, voices low, laughter muted by the weight of the lecture that still hung in the air. I moved quickly, slipping my notebook into my bag, hoping to disappear before his voice could find me again.
“Miss Carter.”
The sound of it rooted me in place. I turned slowly. Professor Hayden Stone stood at the front of the room, composed as ever, collecting his notes with an ease that felt deliberate, his attention already fixed on me. The air between us sharpened, the hum of conversation beyond the doorway fading into nothing.
“Yes, Professor?”
He regarded me for a moment. Then, in a tone too casual to be kind, he asked, “Does clumsiness run in your family, or is it a personal trademark?”
The words landed with the precision of a blade. Heat surged to my cheeks before I could stop it. “Excuse me?”
He didn’t smile, not truly. The curve of his mouth was slight, calculated, carrying the faintest trace of amusement that bordered on cruelty.
“Consider this your only warning,” he said, his voice smooth, measured. “Try not to make a habit of destroying my wardrobe.”
I steadied my breath, forcing my shoulders back. “I’ll do my best not to cross paths with your coat again.”
A silence followed, stretched thin. His gaze flicked over me once, controlled and unreadable, his composure so precise it almost felt rehearsed. “You’d be surprised,” he said quietly, “how small this university really is.”
He gathered the last of his papers, his dismissal wordless but unmistakable.
The moment fractured. I turned away, my pulse still uneven, and stepped into the corridor just as Aster appeared, her expression caught somewhere between shock and delight.
“What was that?” she demanded. “He stopped you, out of everyone.”
I exhaled, the air trembling out of me. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” Aster’s brows lifted. “He was practically glaring at you. Or flirting. I can’t tell which.”
I didn’t answer. The words caught somewhere between my chest and throat, heavy and unspoken. “It’s going to be a long semester,” I said finally, more to myself than to her. Because I already knew it. Professor Hayden Stone was not a man who forgot. And I was not the kind of girl who learned how to stay silent when he wanted me to.
“Okay, I need details. Now.”
Aster’s voice cut through the chill as we stepped into the corridor, her eyes bright with barely contained amusement. I adjusted my scarf with trembling fingers, trying to steady the uneven rhythm of my heart.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
She gave a pointed snort. “Please. The man practically hunted you down with his eyes the entire class. Then he calls on you as if he’s a sniper picking his target, and after that, he holds you back for his little Miss Carter moment like he’s auditioning for a BBC drama.”
I stared ahead, my lips pressed together, heat rising to the back of my neck. “It’s nothing,” I said again, though even I could hear how weak it sounded.
Aster glanced sideways, her mouth curving into a slow, knowing smile. “You’re either frighteningly good at pretending, or absolutely terrible at hiding how flustered you are.”
I stopped walking. “Aster,” I said quietly, “that was the man I spilled coffee on this morning.”
Her expression froze. “No.”
“Yes.”
“The coffee-shop asshole?”
