Boy, would she blush if she knew everything.
“Since when do we sit in the front row?” she asks with a smirk as she drops into the vacant seat next to me.
I shrug and search my bag for a pen to take notes.
When I don’t reply, she continues, unperturbed. “What happened to you last week? You never showed up for class.”
“Something came up. A family thing.”
She grins and elbows me. “Okay, then. So, spill. What did Coach Hottie want to see you about?”
“Just my assignment.” It’s a half-truth, but she doesn’t need to know any more.
Her face drops. “Boring.”
“Yep,” I reply with a forced laugh. “Super boring.”
“Have you heard if Professor Johnson is back yet? My friend is in his Monday class, and she said she had Professor Snowden yester?—”
Hope stirs in my gut, and I stop listening to her when the door to the lecture theatre opens and Ethan walks in. His whiskey eyes find me straight away and my heart picks up speed as I drink him in like an alcoholic. He smiles subtly before dragging his gaze around the filling theatre as he strides towards the lectern.
“Score,” Amy leans in and whispers. “I’ll listen to a lecture on romance in books from Coach Hottie any day.”
Wait… what?I really need to keep up to date with the syllabus. Sure enough, when Ethan clears his throat and starts talking, the slide on the screen reads:Love, Power, and Longing: Themes of Romance in Contemporary Fiction and Poetry.
My stomach flips.
Seriously?
I’m being lectured on themes of romance by a professor I’ve had sex with.
How is this my life?
“In literature,” Ethan begins, his voice low and composed while I’m silently dying inside, “romance isn’t just about love stories or happy endings. It’s about power, vulnerability, and identity. It’s about what people are willing to risk for connection.”
I blink too fast and look down at my notebook in an attempt to get my libido in check, because fuck me, if hearing Ethan talk about connection isn’t getting me hot and bothered. It’s this sensation I get every time I’m in the same room as him, this unexplainable connection that makes me feel seen. Not just in terms of my naked body, but to the core of who I really am.
He continues talking, but I’m lost in my memories from last week. It wasn’twhatwe did, but the way he was with me. His deliberate touch, the way he said my name—my real name—like it meant something. There was something real in the unspoken promises in his kisses.
“Some of the most compelling romantic narratives aren’t aboutbeingin love but aboutwantinglove. It’s about the ache that comes with longing, and the choices characters make when they know they can’t—or shouldn’t—act on it.”
His eyes flick to me for the briefest second.
I can’t breathe.
Amy leans in and whispers, “Okay, damn. I didn’t expect Coach Hottie to get all literary about heartbreak, but I am here for it.”
I nod, unable to speak as he goes on about the authors whose work we’re exploring in our tutorials this afternoon.
How can he stand up there with a straight face and talk about us without talking about us? Especially after he was the one whispering, “We shouldn’t,” as he kissed me breathless. How is he not affected like I am?
Feeling like I need to even the score, I pull out my phone, angling it away from Amy as I open the Euphoria app and click on my DMs.
@daring_devil: I know you’re leaving, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.
He glances down at his smartwatch before flicking his gaze to me. I know he can’t reply in the middle of a lecture, but the small glances he keeps throwing my way while he talks give me a boost of confidence. He’s not completely unaware of whatever this is between us.
I’m sick of overthinking. We’re both consenting adults, and we know this has an expiry date, so why can’t we have some fun before we both leave? If we’re both going into this with our eyes wide open, no one will get hurt.
