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barnesonly · 2 days ago

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── ⊹ ࣪ ˖ Lust ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ──

professor!bucky barnes x reader

summary: You’re a literature student. He’s your English professor — brilliant, composed, and entirely off-limits. But the more you write, the more he notices you. And what begins as admiration quietly unravels into something far more dangerous.

word count: 10,8k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, mutual desperation, age gap, dirty talk, praising kink, dry humping, PiV, breeding, unprotected sex.

Part 3 | Previous Part

You didn’t remember falling asleep. The weight of the day had just… pulled you under. No dreams. Just heavy, exhausted stillness.

And then you heard it. A sharp clink. The soft creak of a window hinge. The smell of smoke.

You stirred, blinking into the dim blue-gray of your dorm room. It was late. The kind of late where the campus was silent and the world outside felt far away.

A small shape sat perched on the windowsill—bare legs, messy bun, oversized hoodie. Cigarette pinched between her fingers, glowing faintly in the dark.

Your roommate—Sarah.

She turned her head a little when she heard you shift, eyes flicking over her shoulder.

“Shit,” she whispered. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You pushed the blanket off slowly and sat up, rubbing your face.

“S’okay.”

You crossed the room barefoot, the floor cold beneath your soles, and slid down next to her on the wide sill. The breeze curled in gentle through the cracked glass—cool and quiet.

She held out the cigarette without a word.

You hesitated for a beat. Then took it.

You didn’t smoke. But tonight? You didn’t want to think. Or explain. Or pretend like everything was fine.

You brought it to your lips. The burn was harsh—your eyes watered slightly—but it steadied something in your chest. Anchored you.

Sarah let out a breath, watching the smoke trail disappear.

“That boy again?”

You didn’t answer right away. You stared out into the dark—the golden halo of the nearest streetlamp, the way the trees moved like shadows against the library wall.

Then you said, softly, “Yeah.”

Sarah tilted her head and looked at you, almost scanning your expression. She knew something was wrong. She always did.

There was something about the way you were between the lectures. Quiet and pink in the cheeks. Or the way you sat curled on your bed some nights, rereading something on your phone with your mouth pressed into a tight line.

Sarah flicked her ash into an old mug by the window.

“You look sad,” she said.

You let out a breath. Something too close to a laugh.

“I feel sad.”

She didn’t push. Didn’t offer advice. Just bumped her shoulder gently against yours.

“That bad?”

You stared down at the cigarette between your fingers. At the way your nails trembled just slightly.

“It’s just… complicated.”

“Isn’t it always?” she said, smiling without teeth.

You didn’t answer. The silence between you filled the room, warm and human. A soft place to land.

Sarah leaned her head back against the frame, her hair a messy halo in the glow of the streetlamp.

“Well,” she said after a pause, exhaling a long breath of smoke, “whoever he is—he’s clearly got you fucked up.”

You let out a tiny laugh through your nose. It came out brittle.

Sarah turned to look at you, her gaze softer than usual. Not prying. Just… present.

“You want to talk about it?”

You hesitated. Shook your head.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It never is,” she shrugged. “But still. Sometimes it helps to say it out loud. Even if it’s just—‘he’s an asshole’ or ‘I’m in too deep’ or ‘I think I fucked up.’”

She glanced sideways. “Or all three.”

You smiled, faintly. The cigarette trembled slightly between your fingers.

“It’s not just about him,” you murmured. “It’s me, too. I let it happen. I keep letting it.”

Sarah tilted her head, flicking ash lazily into the mug.

“Letting something happen doesn’t mean it’s your fault. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

You blinked at her, surprised.

She shrugged again. “I mean… unless he’s married or forty-five or something…” She scrunched her brows. „Well, you did mention he’s older… in that case—I take it back.”

You choked on a laugh and quickly looked away, coughing. You shook your head, trying to play it off, but the look on her face said she wasn’t going to press. Just file it away and let it hang between you, unspoken.

After a few seconds, she nudged your knee with hers.

“Hey. You wanna go to that place tomorrow? The one with the waffles and the weird fake plants?”

You looked at her, startled. “The café by the bookstore?”

“Yeah,” she said, blowing out one last drag. “Weird vibes. Pretty lighting. Might be good for your moody writer spiral.”

You snorted, the weight in your chest easing slightly.

“Sure.”

“Cool.” She stubbed the cigarette out and yawned, stretching. “We’ll romanticize the hell out of our sad-girl bullshit.” She smiled then thought for a moment. „And maybe later we can go to some bar… Or a club. First round on me.”

You sighed and shook your head.

„Come on! It’s weekend. I’m not gonna let you sit here and cry through it. You need some fun.”

She stood, ruffling your hair as she passed.

“Night, lover girl.”

You rolled your eyes, but it stayed with you.

Lover girl.

You sat by the window a moment longer, the breeze brushing your skin, the faint throb of too many feelings caught in your throat.

———

The bar was too loud, too warm, too much—but it didn’t matter.

You were drunk.

Like, really drunk.

Sarah was still laughing at something a guy at the bar had said—some failed pickup line that barely registered in your brain. You’d been nursing your drink too long, straw limp and lipstick-smeared, ice half-melted, but your blood was buzzing and your cheeks were flushed and for once, you didn’t want to think about him.

But of course you did.

Because no matter how loud the music got, how sweet the alcohol tasted, how many jokes Sarah whispered in your ear—you still felt it. Him. His voice, his hands, his goddamn forehead kiss lingering like a brand on your skin.

You picked out your phone from the pocket. You unlocked it and stared at your texts.

His number.

That thread.

You knew you shouldn’t.

You really shouldn’t.

But your fingers were already typing.

You | 11:04PM

you’re an asshole, yk that?

Sent.

The moment it delivered, your stomach dropped.

Oh god.

No.

No no no no no.

You threw the phone face-down on the sticky tabletop and buried your face in your hands.

Sarah slid back into the booth beside you with a tray of fries, looking smug and slightly out of breath.

“Okay, he totally thinks I’m into him, but I did get us free fries, so that’s a win. What’s your deal over here, huh?”

You looked up, eyes wide and horrified. “I just texted him.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “The guy?”

You nodded, lips parted. “I called him an asshole.”

She cackled. “Is he?”

“…I don’t know.”

You did, though.

He wasn’t. Not really.

You just felt small and stupid and messy and… used.

And the worst part? You still wanted him.

Sarah reached over and stole your phone before you could stop her, squinting at the screen.

“Oh shit.”

You slapped your hand over your mouth.

“Okay, you’re panicking,” she said. “Which is normal. But you’re also drunk and hot, which means you’re allowed to say stupid shit.”

“I called him an asshole, Sarah—”

“You texted him,” she corrected. “That’s, like, one level above a drunk voicemail. You’re safe. Probably.”

You groaned and slumped down in the booth.

Your phone buzzed and you two froze.

„Is that him?” Sarah whispered.

You slowly—slowly—picked it up and flipped the phone over. Your heart beat so hard you could barely breathe. You stared at the screen.

One new message. From him. You tapped it open with shaking fingers.

James | 11:07PM

Are you safe?

That was it.

No questions, no scolding, no confusion—just that.

Are you safe.

Not What the hell?

Not Don’t text me like that.

Not even Are you insane?

Just… concern.

And god, that made it worse.

You bit your lip, throat tightening. The tears that had been sitting quietly behind your eyes all night started to rise.

Sarah peered over. “Well? What’d he say?”

You just turned the screen toward her.

Her face softened. “Damn.”

“I didn’t mean it,” you whispered. “I don’t think he’s—”

“You don’t have to explain it to me.”

“I think I’m just…” You swallowed hard. “I think I’m scared he only wants me for one thing. And I hate that I still want him anyway.”

Sarah nodded. No teasing this time. “Then tell him that. Or don’t. But either way—you’re not crazy.”

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.

You didn’t want to lie.

You didn’t want to push him away.

But you also didn’t want to fall any deeper without knowing if there was something real underneath it all.

So finally, you typed:

You | 11:09PM

yeah. i’m safe. just drunk and stupid. i’m sorry.

Send.

You stared at it.

You didn’t expect him to reply. Not tonight, not really but thirty seconds later, your screen lit up again.

James | 11:09PM

You’re not stupid. And you don’t have to apologize to me.

Then another one.

James | 11:09PM

Text me when you’re home, alright?

Your chest ached.

And maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the lights. Maybe it was just the part of you that was hopelessly, stupidly his. But you smiled. Just a little and whispered to yourself, “Okay.”

———

You made it back to your dorm a little past 1 a.m.—still swaying slightly from the drinks, your coat wrapped too tightly around you, cheeks flushed from the night air and the alcohol and everything unsaid.

Sarah kicked her shoes off and collapsed face-first into her bed with a groan.

“Dead,” she mumbled.

You laughed softly. “You’re literally the one who made me do tequila shots.”

A muffled, traitorous noise from her pillow. “Peer pressure builds character.”

You didn’t answer. Just toed your boots off, peeled off your jeans, and climbed into your bed. The room was quiet now, dark, warm. The buzz of everything—noise, music, doubt—was finally fading.

You rolled over and reached for your phone. You stared at it for a second. Your heart fluttered. Just a little. Then you typed:

You | 1:11AM

i’m home.

You hesitated then added—

You | 1:11AM

still a little drunk. but safe. promise.

Send.

You tucked the phone against your chest and turned onto your side, watching the ceiling blur in the dark. You didn’t expect him to reply immediately.

But he did. Not even a full minute later.

James | 1:11AM

Thank you for letting me know.

Get some rest, sweetheart.

You read it again.

And again.

Your fingers hovered. Then slowly, quietly, you typed another message.

You | 1:12AM

goodnight, james.

Send.

You didn’t expect anything else after that but then, one last message blinked onto the screen:

James | 11:12AM

Goodnight, my girl.

Your heart stuttered. You set the phone down. Face buried into the pillow. A quiet, breathless kind of ache blooming in your chest.

His girl.

———

You woke slowly.

The kind of slow that came after a night of too much alcohol and too many feelings. Your mouth was dry. Your head was a little fuzzy. But the ache in your chest—the one that had been gnawing at you—was softer somehow. Not gone. Just quieter.

The sunlight filtered through the blinds, golden and gentle, casting long lines across the room.

Sarah was still out cold in her bed, snoring softly into her pillow, hair tangled around her face. You smiled faintly.

You turned over and reached for your phone, expecting the usual cluster of unread texts or maybe a blurry photo or two from the bar.

But there was just one message waiting for you.

From him. Sent sometime early this morning—maybe while you were still curled into yourself, still half-spinning in the dark.

James | 8:37AM

Morning. Are you okay?

You blinked down at the screen, lips parted slightly. The warmth in your chest spread, slow and sticky and sweet. He didn’t have to text. He could’ve chalked it all up to drunken nonsense, pretended nothing had happened.

But he didn’t.

He asked.

You stared at the message for a long moment. Then, fingers a little hesitant, you typed:

You | 11:33AM

yeah. just… had a weird night.

You hovered for a second, then added—

You | 1:33AM

thank you for checking in.

Your phone stayed in your hand. You didn’t expect a quick reply—it was the weekend—but you couldn’t help it.

You watched the screen anyway. Time time it didn’t feel pathetic. Just… honest. Just human.

After nearly ten minutes the phone buzzed in your hand, and your breath caught before you even looked.

James | 11:42AM

You’ve been off lately. I asked you ’bout it and you said you were okay, told me I didn’t do anything wrong. And now you’re sending me a message in the middle of the night calling me an asshole.

Then another buzz.

James | 11:42AM

I know you were drunk but I am worried, sweetheart.

There it was again.

That word.

Sweetheart.

It wasn’t angry. He still wasn’t scolding you. If anything, he sounded… tired. Maybe a little hurt. But mostly—he was just worried.

Your fingers hovered over your screen, unsure how to even begin to explain the ache that had been pulling at you lately. The doubt, the fear, the way you couldn’t stop wondering if it was all just sex to him.

But he was the one who reached out. Who noticed. And he called you sweetheart. Maybe… maybe he did care.

You ran a hand over your face.

Get yourself together.

You hesitated, then started typing with trembling thumbs.

You | 11:45AM

I’m sorry. It was just a stupid drunk thing. I didn’t mean it. I was just being dumb. Please don’t worry about it.

You stared at the message for a long moment before hitting send. The read receipt appeared almost immediately. Then came his reply.

James | 11:45AM

We’ll talk about it in person, okay?

Your stomach flipped.

Because you knew what that meant.

He wasn’t mad—at least, not in the way that scared you. But he wasn’t brushing it off either. He wanted to see you. Look you in the eyes. Have a real conversation.

And you didn’t even know what you were supposed to say to him. Part of you was angry, the other so deeply in love you weren’t even sure what you’re doing. What you should do.

But maybe he was right. Maybe it’d be the best to finally talk about it.

———

The monday lecture ended like all the others—pages rustling, backpacks zipping, quiet chatter fading as students filed out one by one. You stayed in your seat, pretending to gather your things slowly, pretending not to notice how he hadn’t even looked at you once during the entire hour.

But when the last student slipped out the door and it clicked shut behind them, you felt him approach.

“Can we talk?” James’s voice was low, careful. “About the message you sent me.”

You let out a quiet breath, still focused on stuffing your notebook into your bag. “It’s nothing. Really. I told you—it was just a stupid drunk thing.”

“I don’t believe that,” he said gently. “And you know I don’t.”

Your fingers stilled on your bag’s zipper.

He took a slow step closer.

“You’ve been off for days. And then that message… it wasn’t just drunk, was it?”

You swallowed hard. “I told you it doesn’t matter.”

“But it does.”

There was something too sincere in his voice, too calm. It made your chest tighten.

“I care about you. And I want to understand what’s really going on in that head of yours.”

That broke something loose.

You stood up too fast, your voice snapping before you could stop it. “Fine. You want to know what’s going on? I want you to give me good grades because you actually think I’m a good writer. Not because I sneak into your office hours so you can fuck me!”

The silence that followed cracked like ice. Your words hung between you—loud and raw and aching.

He stared at you, jaw clenched, something pained flashing behind his eyes.

“Sweetheart…” he started, stepping forward and reaching out his hand to touch you. “I’m sorry. I’ll make this up to you. I didn’t realize—”

But when he reached for you, you flinched. Took a step back. Shook your head.

“God,” you laughed bitterly. “Not everything can be fixed with fucking, James. Maybe in your head it can, but not in mine.”

He froze. His hands lowered slowly. And for the first time since this whole thing began, you watched him fall completely silent—no soft words, no charming excuses, no dominant control.

Just stood there with something breaking across his face—quietly, painfully. Like he’d been struck. His throat worked around silence for a second too long before he spoke—soft, almost uncertain.

“I’m sorry. I… I didn’t mean to.”

His voice cracked just slightly at the end. You hated how it made something in your chest twist, how even now, with everything burning inside you, your heart still ached at the thought of hurting him.

But the ache wasn’t just his. It was yours.

Your shoulders trembled before you could stop it, and you turned your face away, one hand coming up like a shield—but it was too late. He saw.

The tears had started to fall.

You tried to wipe them quickly, tried to pretend they didn’t matter, but your voice gave you away.

“I just…” you swallowed hard, chest heaving, “I don’t want to be some fucking fantasy to you. Some toy you get to praise and fuck and keep in the shadows. I want to be seen, James. I want to matter. To you.”

His expression shifted—his whole face softening, brow creased like your pain had carved its way into him too.

“You do,” he said, so quiet it almost hurt to hear. “You do matter.”

You shook your head, another tear slipping down.

“I don’t know that. I don’t. Because everything gets so blurry when we’re alone, and then you act like nothing happened in public, and I’m just—” your breath hitched, “—I’m tired of wondering if I’m just a body you like to fuck or a girl you actually see.”

He took a tentative step closer, not reaching this time. Just… looking at you like you were something delicate he didn’t know how to hold anymore.

“I see you,” he said again, steadier this time. “And I’m sorry I ever made you question that.”

You said nothing, eyes downcast, breathing shallow as you tried to compose yourself.

And then—finally—he closed the space between you, slow, careful. He didn’t touch you until you looked up.

And when you did—just slightly, just enough—he opened his arms, wordless, waiting.

You stood there for a moment, trembling.

Then you let yourself fall into him.

And he held you tight, his chin resting against your temple, his hand gently cradling the back of your head as if he was trying to put all your pieces back together.

“I’m here,” he murmured. “You matter. You matter so much.”

James didn’t let go. Even after your tears had slowed, after your breath started to steady again—he just held you. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, gentle and grounding, and his forehead dipped to rest lightly against yours.

“I don’t want it to be like this either,” he murmured, his voice so close it barely needed to be spoken aloud. “You think I like hiding this? Pretending not to know you in front of a room full of people, pretending I don’t feel what I feel when you walk in?”

You closed your eyes at that. His words settled somewhere deep in your chest—soft, aching, true.

“But you know why we have to,” he continued, quieter now. “It’s not just my job. It’s you. I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you because of this. If someone found out and dragged you into it. I just…”

He paused. You felt his breath stutter, the way his hands held your face more tightly, like he needed to say it right.

“I just wanted to give you something real. Even if it’s only here. Like this.”

Your eyes opened to find him staring at you again—earnest, open, wounded by the very truth he was saying out loud.

“I care about you,” he whispered. “More than I should. More than I ever meant to.”

You let out a shaky breath, eyes still burning, and you pressed your forehead against his shoulder.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I know. I know, I’m so sorry. I just… you gave me that extra grade and I thought…” You swallowed, voice cracking around the words. “I thought maybe you were just doing all this to—use me. Like it wasn’t about anything real, just… just sex and good grades and—god, I’m so stupid, I’m sorry.”

He pulled back just enough to make you look at him again, his hands still holding your face with that same unbearable tenderness.

“Hey,” he murmured, firm but quiet. “Don’t say that. You’re not stupid. Don’t ever say that.”

His thumbs brushed beneath your eyes, catching the tears you hadn’t meant to let fall again.

“I’m sorry,” he said, eyes searching yours with a softness that broke you all over again. “You were doubting yourself as a writer and I… I don’t know. I thought I was helping. I thought it would push you, motivate you, show you I believed in you even if you didn’t.”

You blinked at him, lips parted, chest aching.

“But that was me being stupid,” he added, gently. “Not you. I should’ve seen it sooner. I should’ve asked. I didn’t mean to make you feel used, baby. I swear to god, I just wanted you to believe in yourself even half as much as I believe in you.”

The way he said it — quietly, with his eyes so open and honest — made you feel like you were unraveling in the safest possible way.

And you couldn’t help it: your hands found his again, clinging tight.

“I do care,” he whispered. “So much more than I’m supposed to. And I know we can’t say it, can’t show it—not how we want—but none of this is just physical for me. It never was.”

You nodded, tears slipping free again. This time from something else. Something softer.

“I know,” you whispered. “I know now.”

James exhaled softly and pulled you in again, arms wrapping around your back, holding you so close it felt like he was trying to shield you from the whole world.

You let yourself fall into it. Let yourself bury your face into the warm, familiar scent of his shirt. His heart beat steady under your ear, a quiet rhythm that calmed something deep inside you.

His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair as he pressed a kiss to your temple. Then your forehead. Soft. Reassuring. Reverent.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured into your skin. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

You sniffled, curling your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, holding on like you were afraid you might fall apart again if you didn’t.

James pulled back just slightly, just enough to look at you again — and when he did, his expression was all warmth, all honesty.

“I’ll do better,” he said, his voice low but certain. “For you. I promise.”

You blinked up at him, lips parting like you wanted to say something — but the words caught in your throat. So instead you just nodded, slowly, tearfully.

He smiled — that soft, rare kind of smile that barely reached the corners of his mouth but lived in his eyes instead. And then he leaned in, pressing one more kiss to your forehead like a vow.

“I’m not going to hurt you again,” he added. “Not if I can help it. No more mixed signals. No more making you doubt yourself. You deserve better than that. You deserve everything.”

And god — you believed him. Or maybe you just wanted to believe him. Either way, in that moment, his arms felt like the only place in the world you were supposed to be.

———

You got back to your dorm.

Sarah still hadn’t come back — probably out with her friends again — and for once, the silence didn’t feel heavy. You were curled up at your desk, legs tucked beneath you, laptop open and a textbook propped up beside it. A cup of tea sat cooling beside your hand. Your notes were more organized than they’d been in days. You felt—lighter. Not fixed, not whole, but… steadier.

Cared for.

The ache in your chest that had been there all week had started to dissolve, replaced by the warmth of James’s voice still echoing in your head. I’ve got you. I’ll do better. You deserve everything.

You were underlining a sentence in your book when your phone buzzed.

You glanced over, expecting a message from Sarah, maybe a group chat ping.

But it was him.

James | 5:58PM

Are you free tonight?

Your heart flipped in your chest. You stared at the screen. Blinking. Rereading the words, as if they might mean something different the second time around.

Free tonight?

You sat up straighter, teeth tugging at your lower lip. You didn’t expect it — not tonight. Not after everything you’d both just laid bare. But the question sent a thrill through you, curling low and warm in your stomach.

You typed back quickly.

You | 5:59PM

Um. Yeah. I am.

The reply came almost immediately.

James | 5:59PM

Come over. I want to see you.

[address attached]

You stared at the screen.

Your pulse kicked up. You could feel it behind your ribs, in your throat. Your fingers tightened around the phone.

Holy. Shit.

You’d never been to his place before. Office hours, dim-lit corners of the lecture hall after everyone left — those were the places you existed together. But this? His space? It felt so much more personal. So much more real.

You bit back a smile. Cheeks warm. Stomach fluttering. Then you stood up. Closed your laptop. You didn’t even bother finishing your homework.

You stood there for a moment, still holding your phone like it might vanish out of your hands. His address glowed back at you. You reread the messages three more times—just to be sure.

But still, your fingers hesitated before you typed.

You | 6:00PM

Are you sure?

You chewed on your thumbnail, heart thudding. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to see him—you did, desperately. But it felt like crossing into a new space. A new layer of this… whatever it was between you.

Your phone buzzed again.

James | 6:01PM

Yeah, I’m sure, sweetheart. Just make sure no one sees you, okay?

Sweetheart.

The word hit like a slow, dizzying warmth behind your ribs. You blinked at it, then slowly sat back down on the edge of your bed, biting back a breathless little smile.

You read his message again.

He wanted you there. He wanted you. Not just in some tucked-away corner of the university—but in his home. In a place that was his.

Your face flushed, a little dazed, a little giddy.

You scrambled up and padded barefoot to your wardrobe, suddenly seeing every piece of clothing with fresh, critical eyes. What would he like? What would make him look at you the way he sometimes did when no one else was around? That dark, intense gaze that burned through you and made you forget your own name?

You rifled through shirts and sweaters and skirts, pulling one out only to toss it back with a shake of your head.

Too casual.

Too obvious.

Too boring.

Too much.

You paused at a soft little dress you hadn’t worn in a while — black, just fitted enough to hug you right, the neckline subtly flattering without trying too hard. You held it up against yourself in the mirror, your heart hammering faster as you imagined his hands sliding beneath the hem.

You pressed your lips together, unable to stop smiling now.

You wanted to look pretty for him.

You wanted to make him want you the way you were already aching for him.

So you changed. You brushed your hair. You put on the softest perfume you owned — just a little, behind your ears. And when you finally stood by the mirror again, clutching your phone in your hand and staring at your reflection, you whispered to yourself:

“Okay. Let’s go.”

And then you slipped out into the night—heart pounding, cheeks warm, heading toward the man who had slowly, quietly, completely undone you.

———

You stood in front of the building, your heart thudding louder with every passing second. The address he gave you had led to a quiet street just outside the bustle of downtown—elegant, expensive. The kind of place with sleek glass windows and gold-lit balconies, the kind of place professors with tenure and old money lived.

You looked up once more before walking in. Marble-tiled lobby. Polished elevator. It all felt surreal.

You reached his floor, smoothed your hands down the front of your dress again, adjusted the neckline just slightly, and took a deep breath before lifting your hand to knock.

There was a pause.

Then soft, steady footsteps before he opened the door.

James stood there in a black button-down, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. The first two buttons were undone, just enough to reveal the curve of his throat, the faintest hint of chest. His hair was slightly tousled like he’d run his hands through it one too many times, and the moment his eyes landed on you—

His lips parted, ever so slightly.

He took a breath in, gaze roaming—slow and reverent—from the hem of your dress to the way your hair framed your face. He didn’t speak at first, just looked at you like he was memorizing something. Like maybe he’d been waiting for this.

“You look…” he murmured, voice rough around the edges. “Beautiful.”

Heat bloomed in your cheeks.

“Come in,” he added more softly, stepping aside to let you through.

His apartment was exactly what you’d imagined—and not at all. Minimalist but warm. The floors were dark wood, the walls a rich charcoal gray softened by warm lighting. There were books stacked neatly on shelves and records beside a sleek old turntable. A soft jazz instrumental played low in the background.

And from the open doorway of the kitchen, you caught the mouthwatering scent of garlic, herbs, something simmering slowly.

You blinked.

“Are you… cooking?”

He gave you a little smirk but there was something bashful under it, too. He nodded toward the kitchen.

“I said I’d do better, didn’t I?” he said, his voice gentler now, stripped of all that classroom command. “So I made dinner.”

You stared at him, a little stunned.

He ran a hand down the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Figured you deserve a real date. For once.”

Your heart melted.

Actually melted.

The room felt warmer. The world a little softer. And you—still standing near the door in your prettiest dress, still trying to make sense of how this man could make you feel both wrecked and cherished all at once—could only whisper:

“You really didn’t have to…”

“I wanted to,” he said simply. “You deserve it.”

And with that, he leaned in just a little, not kissing you yet—but close enough to make your breath catch.

“Dinner first,” he murmured with a crooked smile. “Then… whatever you want.”

He guided you toward the kitchen with a hand lightly grazing your lower back—barely there, but grounding. The dining area was just off to the side, lit by the soft glow of a hanging pendant lamp. A small round table had been set for two. Real plates, real silverware, cloth napkins. A bottle of wine already uncorked. Two glasses waiting.

It felt intimate. Intentional.

James moved to the stove, lifting a pan with practiced ease. “It’s nothing fancy,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at you. “Just pasta. I didn’t want to risk anything too… ambitious.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “You made me dinner. I think that’s already ambitious.”

He gave you that half-smile again—like you always managed to catch him off guard in the best way—and plated the food before joining you at the table. He poured the wine, then sat across from you, forearms braced on the edge of the wood as he looked at you fully.

For a moment, you both just ate. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was comfortable, full of quiet glances and the soft clink of silverware. The food was… actually really good. Rich, garlicky, a little spicy. You hadn’t realized how hungry you were until now.

“So,” he said eventually, voice soft. ��How are you feeling?”

You glanced up. The way he asked—it wasn’t casual, not filler. He really wanted to know.

You hesitated, then said quietly, “Better. Today was hard, but… this helps.”

He nodded slowly. “I meant what I said earlier. I never want to make you feel like you’re just—” He stopped, jaw tensing like the words made him angry at himself. “You matter to me. Not just the work, not just the sex. You. All of it.”

You felt your throat tighten a little. You reached for your wine to cover the flicker of emotion.

“Thanks for… tonight,” you said after a beat. “This is the first time in a while I’ve felt like… I don’t know. A person.”

James’s expression softened instantly. He reached out across the table, hand brushing gently over yours.

“You are a person,” he said. “A brilliant, stubborn, maddeningly talented person who I can’t stop thinking about.”

You bit your lip, trying not to smile too obviously.

“And I’m trying,” he added. “To make this… right. Even if we can’t be open. Even if we have to hide. I want you to feel safe. Wanted.”

“I do,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Especially now.”

He smiled, quiet and real. “Good.”

You both fell into another easy stretch of conversation—talking about books you loved, a movie you wanted to see, how he once accidentally called another professor a dick during his first year teaching and never lived it down.

And for the first time in weeks, you laughed.

Like really laughed.

And when dinner ended and the plates were pushed aside and the wine was low in the glass, he stood slowly and held out his hand.

“Come here,” he murmured.

You took it and let him pull you into his arms.

He wrapped his arms around you fully, tucking you against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. His chin rested on the top of your head for a moment, and you could hear the steady rhythm of his breathing—calm, even, like holding you had settled something deep inside him.

Then he pulled back just enough to press the softest kiss to your temple.

Another to your cheek.

Then a slower one to the corner of your mouth.

You blinked up at him, already warm in his arms, but melting even more when he smiled against your skin and murmured, “Whatchu wanna do now, baby?”

You bit back a shy grin, cheeks warming. “I don’t know,” you said, voice small.

He kissed you again, teasing now—right on the nose. “Movie? Cuddling? Both?” His hand slid up your back slowly, fingers threading gently into your hair. “Or… you just wanna let me hold you all night?”

You couldn’t help it—you nodded, pressing closer. “All of the above,” you mumbled into his shirt. “Just wanna be close to you.”

He chuckled softly, something so loving in the sound. “God, you’re cute.”

You pulled back slightly to pout. “Don’t call me cute.”

He tilted his head, eyes twinkling. “Beautiful, then. Gorgeous. Perfect.”

Your heart fluttered so violently you thought he might feel it.

“Okay,” he said, kissing your forehead one more time. “Movie it is. But I’m warning you—I have truly awful taste in rom-coms.”

He guided you gently to the couch, his hand never leaving yours. As you sat down and curled up beside him, his arm draped around your shoulders and pulled you close like you belonged there. Like you always had.

And the moment he hit play and the screen lit up in front of you, you weren’t even watching. You were too focused on the way he looked at you from the corner of his eye.

Like you were everything.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look him in the eyes. And God, he was so beautiful like this—his expression soft and adoring, like he couldn’t believe you were here in his arms.

And maybe it was the wine still buzzing in your veins, or the way he’d made dinner, or how he looked at you like you were more than just someone he touched—but you couldn’t help it.

You smiled, cheeks warm. “Fuck the movie.”

Before he could respond, you swung a leg over him, straddling his lap, your dress riding up your thighs. He blinked, surprised—but that familiar glint sparked in his eyes instantly, and his hands slid to your waist as you leaned in and kissed him.

It started slow. Tender. His lips moving against yours with a patience that made you ache. One hand cupped your cheek, the other gripped your hip like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to hold you in place or pull you closer.

But then your tongue brushed his, and his breath hitched—and the shift was instant.

He deepened the kiss with a groan, both hands sliding up under your dress, fingertips warm against your skin. You rocked against him, and he cursed low into your mouth.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, pulling back just long enough to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, his hair slightly mussed from your fingers. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”

His lips found your neck, your collarbone, the space just under your ear that made your breath catch. And you let yourself melt into him, already dizzy from how much you wanted more.

Because here—wrapped in his arms, straddling his lap in his stupidly nice apartment—you didn’t feel like a secret. You felt like something he cherished.

Your lips parted with a soft gasp as you felt him, hard beneath you, straining against his slacks.

And God, you moved against him again—slowly, deliberately—and that drew a groan straight from his throat. His hands gripped your hips tighter, like he was trying not to lose control too fast, but you could feel the way his restraint was slipping.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed against your mouth, kissing you again—hotter this time, deeper, his tongue claiming yours. “What’re you trying to do to me?”

You didn’t answer—just kept rolling your hips against him, feeling the thick press of him beneath you. And then you whimpered when his teeth grazed your bottom lip, and your fingers tugged at the collar of his shirt, trying to pull him closer even though you were already flush against him.

He kissed you like he owned your mouth—slow, hungry, possessive. Like he’d been starving for you. Like the very taste of you could undo him.

And then—without warning—his hands slid under your thighs, lifting you up with ease.

You gasped, arms flying around his neck instinctively, but he just smirked, eyes dark and hooded. “You think I’m gonna fuck you on my couch?” he murmured, walking you down the hallway with you clinging to him, legs wrapped around his waist.

“Not tonight, sweetheart.”

Your heart pounded wildly in your chest as he nudged open the door to his bedroom. It was warm and low-lit, his scent already filling the space—clean linen and something woodsy and masculine.

He walked you straight to the bed and laid you down gently, as if you were something precious, something breakable. And then he hovered above you, eyes scanning your face like he needed to memorize every detail.

“I need you,” he whispered. “Need all of you.”

And when he kissed you again—God, it wasn’t just lust. It was everything.

His hands slid down your sides as he helped ease your dress from your shoulders, inch by inch. James looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured—more to himself than to you—and leaned in to press a reverent kiss to your collarbone. Then your shoulder. Then lower, along the curve of your chest.

His mouth worshipped every inch it touched, trailing slow, soft kisses over your skin. He lingered at your breasts, his tongue flicking, teasing, until your back arched off the mattress. His stubble grazed your skin as he sucked gently, then moved lower—your ribs, your stomach—his mouth worshiping every inch of you.

You buried your fingers in his hair, gasping when he grazed his lips over your stomach, each press a quiet confession. He didn’t rush. He took his time—as if he was memorizing you.

Then, you tugged gently at his shirt, needing him closer, needing more. He let you pull it over his head, and you finally saw him—his chest, lean and strong, all sculpted muscle and tension and heat.

Your breath caught. God, he was beautiful. All of him.

He smirked softly at the way you stared, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. And then you were helping him out of the rest of his clothes—slow, shy, but eager. Each movement filled with that quiet urgency you both tried to keep buried.

He watched you the whole time, letting you look, letting you touch. And when your hands dipped lower to help him out of his pants, then his boxers, your breath hitched.

Then he moved again—settling between your thighs. Gently, he shifted, guiding you until he rolled, and suddenly, you were straddling him. Your knees pressed into the mattress on either side of his hips. His hands rested on your thighs, warm and grounding.

You blinked, surprised, a little unsure.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice low and husky.

You nodded, still catching your breath. Still processing.

His thumbs stroked soft circles into your skin. “I want you like this,” he said. “I want to watch you. But more than that… I want you to show me.”

Your brows knitted. “Show you?”

He leaned up, just enough for your lips to brush. His voice barely a whisper against your mouth.

“Show me how you like it, sweetheart.”

Your breath shuddered as you looked down at him—chest rising and falling beneath you, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded with want. His hands stayed on your thighs, thumbs rubbing slow, teasing circles as if he were giving you time—but you didn’t want time. You wanted him.

So you moved. Carefully at first. Your hips shifted forward, dragging your slick folds against the thick length of him where he was already hard and waiting beneath you. You both exhaled at the same time—his jaw tightening, your body already aching from just the friction.

“Just like that,” he muttered, voice rough now, filthy and full of heat. “Fuck, sweetheart… don’t stop.”

You ground against him again, slower this time, letting the drag of him through your folds send sparks down your spine. Every brush of your clit against him made you clench around nothing, made your fingers press into the solid planes of his chest for balance.

His head tipped back. You watched the way his throat moved when he swallowed hard. “You feel what you do to me?” he gritted out, hands gripping tighter at your hips now, guiding you without forcing.

You nodded, biting your lip as you moved again—slick and desperate and needy.

He groaned, low and guttural. “You gonna ride me, baby? Huh? Gonna show me how you fuckin’ take it?”

Your body burned at the words. You reached down, hand wrapping around him, guiding him to your entrance—he was thick and hot and pulsing in your palm. You lined him up and sank down slowly, inch by inch, until the stretch had you gasping and clenching around him. James cursed under his breath, head slamming back against the pillow.

“Jesus Christ,” he hissed. “You’re so tight—so wet. You’re killin’ me.”

You braced your hands on his chest and rolled your hips once—slow, steady, taking him deep. He groaned again, one hand flying to your ass to squeeze, to pull you harder against him.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Just like that, sweetheart. Ride me. Take what you need.”

And you did.

You found your rhythm—rocking against him, rising and falling in time with his ragged breaths. His hands roamed now, gripping your waist, your ass, sliding up to your breasts, fingers tugging at your nipples as you moaned for him. The sound of skin slapping, the wet drag of your bodies, the way he kept whispering filthy things between gritted teeth—it was overwhelming in the best way.

“You like that?” he panted. “Like being on top of me like this, lettin’ me watch your pretty face while I ruin you?”

You whimpered, nails digging into his skin. “Yes—yes, James—”

“Fuck, that’s it,” he snarled, sitting up suddenly, arm wrapped tight around your back as he thrust up into you now, hard and deep and perfect. “Gonna come for me like this? On my cock, sweetheart?”

Your moans broke into something shameless and high-pitched as the pleasure built—tight and fast, deep in your belly.

“I—James, fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Then do it,” he growled against your mouth. “Come for me. Let me feel how sweet that pussy gets when I fuckin’ break you.”

You shattered.

The orgasm ripped through you, violent and electric, and you cried out as your body clamped down around him. James’ grip tightened, and with a broken curse, he followed—thrusting once, twice more before spilling into you with a groan that sounded like your name.

You were shaking. He held you through it.

And when your breathing finally slowed, his hands went gentle again—stroking your back, kissing your shoulder, letting you come down.

“Fuck,” he murmured, voice hoarse and full of something raw. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me, baby…”

You were still trembling, limbs boneless and chest heaving, the aftershocks of everything you just shared washing over you like warm waves. He hadn’t moved much—still nestled deep inside you, the feeling of him gentle but grounding, his breath uneven against your shoulder.

His hand brushed through your hair, gently combing through it, smoothing it, slow and soothing, fingers tracing along your scalp like he couldn’t stop touching you. You buried your face in his neck, skin flushed, body burning, and he just held you like that—quiet and close, like you were something fragile. Precious.

He leaned in, pressing a slow, lazy kiss there. Then another. And another—each one softer than the last, like he couldn’t stop.

You felt the pad of his thumb stroke behind your ear, and your eyes fluttered closed at the tenderness of it all. His hand was on your back now, cool and comforting, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

“James…” you whispered, voice barely there.

He hummed softly, stroking your hair again, then gently leaned back just enough to look at you. His hand slid to your cheek, thumb brushing your jaw as he studied you—like he wanted to remember every inch of your face.

He pulled out from you, making you gasp and moan quietly. Then—he rolled you over, slow and careful, his body pressing you down into the sheets again as he came to rest above you. Still so close it made your heart ache.

And that’s when he said it.

“I love you.”

So quiet. So certain. No hesitation in his voice, no teasing in his tone. Just the words, raw and real, like they’d been burning on his tongue for weeks and finally broke free.

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. Your heart felt like it had stopped and then exploded all at once. You stared at him—into those stormy blue eyes that looked at you like you were more than just a student, more than just a body—and it hit you like lightning.

He meant it.

You blinked, tears already stinging your lashes, and then you reached up and pulled him down, kissing him like your life depended on it. Like the world would end if you didn’t. It wasn’t needy or rushed—it was full, and slow, and sacred. A promise sealed in the way your mouths moved, the way you both broke a little more open.

“I love you too,” you whispered into his lips, breathless. “So much.”

And for the first time, you felt like maybe you weren’t just his secret. You were his. All of you. Completely.

You lay there with him, your bodies still warm from everything you’d shared, the room quiet except for the low hum of city sounds outside his window. The dim light painted soft shadows across his face, and his fingers traced lazy circles along your bare back.

But something sat heavy in your chest. A knot of fear you couldn’t quite swallow down.

“Can I ask you something?” you murmured, not lifting your head from where it rested against his collarbone.

He stilled, then nodded. “Anything.”

You hesitated. “Have you… ever done this before?”

James went quiet.

You felt the shift in his body before he answered, the way his arms gently tightened around you like he could feel the question pulling you away from him.

“Done what?” he asked, voice low. Careful.

You closed your eyes. “Had something like this with a student.”

There was a beat of silence so thick it felt like you could drown in it.

“I just…” You took a shaky breath. “I need to know, James…”

He exhaled, and then shifted, rolling onto his side so he could see you properly. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw as his eyes locked with yours.

“No,” he said, firm. “No, baby. I haven’t. I would never do that.”

You didn’t answer right away, but your eyes shimmered in the low light.

“I don’t even let myself look at students that way,” he continued, softer now. “I built this wall so high between who I am and what I teach—because it matters. That line matters.”

You swallowed. “But you crossed it.”

“I did.” He nodded, not flinching from the truth. “Because you… you broke everything in me.”

Your breath caught.

“I read what you wrote and I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he said. “Then you’d sit in my lectures and ask the kinds of questions no one else ever asked. Your writing felt like you were talking only to me. You smiled at me like you saw me. And I—fuck, I tried. I tried to be good. But I couldn’t stay away.”

You blinked, tears slipping down the corners of your eyes.

“It wasn’t the sex,” he added. “Not even close. I fell for you the first time you talked in class. I tried to stop it. To push it away but I’ve been falling ever since.”

You nodded slowly, and when he leaned forward to press a kiss to your forehead, you let him.

He tucked your body closer to his, his breath warm against your skin.

“You’re not just one of anything,” he whispered. “You’re the one.”

Your gaze softened. The breath you let out was shaky, caught somewhere between awe and ache. You melted into his arms, tucked your face against his neck and let him hold you like something precious.

But the warmth didn’t quiet the fear completely.

“What… what happens now?” you murmured, voice small against his skin.

He was quiet for a moment, and you lifted your head just enough to look at him.

“I mean it, James. I love you. I want this. But we can’t just… have it. If someone finds out—”

“I know,” he said quietly, cutting you off. “I know it’s dangerous.”

You swallowed hard. “So what do we do? Keep meeting in secret? Pretending like none of this exists once I’m back in the lecture hall?”

He exhaled, his fingers brushing over your lower back. “We’ll be careful. Smarter about it. No unnecessary risks. Office hours, quiet corners, places where no one’s paying attention—we’ll figure it out.”

You nodded, the knot in your chest loosening just slightly.

His hand came up, cupping your jaw gently as he looked at you, steady and sincere. “I’ll protect you. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Or take this away.”

His thumb brushed along your cheekbone, the curve of his mouth gentle when he looked at you.

“You should stay,” James said, barely above a whisper. “For the night.”

Your heart fluttered.

You blinked, surprised for a second—even though part of you had been hoping, praying, that he’d ask. Still, the words caught in your throat. “Are you sure?”

He nodded, instantly. “Of course I’m sure.”

And then his arms wrapped around you tighter, pulling you closer to his chest, and god—you could’ve cried again. Not from hurt this time, but from the way he held you like you were his entire world. Like this—you—meant everything.

You nuzzled into his chest with a small laugh, muffled against his skin. “You’re gonna regret it when I might make you skip your lecture tomorrow.”

You felt the rumble of his chuckle in his chest, low and warm.

“Don’t do this to me,” he groaned, tipping his head back with a smile. “You know I have to go to work.”

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, smug and sleepy as you curled closer. “But I also know you’d let me distract you.”

He sighed dramatically, but you could hear the fondness thick in his voice. “You’re a brat.”

“And yet,” you murmured, lips brushing his collarbone, “you asked me to stay.”

His hands slid up your back, holding you like he’d never let go. “I’d ask you again a thousand times. I just want you here.”

———

Morning light filtered softly through the curtains, pale and gold across the sheets. The room was quiet, save for the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing beside you.

You were already awake.

Had been for a while, lying still with your cheek pressed to his bare chest, listening to the way his heartbeat thrummed steady beneath your ear.

But now—now the clock on his nightstand blinked a little too urgently, and you knew you had to move.

You slipped out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake him just yet. You gathered your dress from the floor, smoothed it out as best you could, then padded silently toward the bathroom.

Your reflection in the mirror made you pause.

Your hair was sleep-mussed, your skin still warm from his touch. The fading flush across your collarbone told its own story. A little dazed, a little wrecked. But glowing.

You felt… whole.

You washed up, combed through your hair with your fingers, did your best to look halfway presentable. You’d have to swing by your dorm to change—your own lecture started soon, and James had his usual morning class.

You turned the light off gently and stepped back into the bedroom.

He was still there—curled under the covers, face half-buried in the pillow, hair mussed and boyish. It made your chest ache. So soft. So utterly unguarded.

You sat on the edge of the bed and reached out, brushing your fingers lightly through his hair. Then down along his shoulder. “James,” you whispered.

Nothing.

You leaned in a little closer, letting your lips graze his temple. “James, baby. Wake up.”

He stirred, grumbling something unintelligible before an arm curled around your waist and pulled you back down with a groggy strength.

“Mm—no,” he murmured against your skin, voice thick with sleep. “Don’t wanna.”

You laughed softly, trying not to melt completely. “I have a class. So do you.”

“Don’t care.” His hand slid up your side, palm warm and familiar. “Just five more minutes.”

“James—”

He cracked one eye open, finally meeting your gaze with a lazy, crooked smile. “You’re evil.”

“I know,” you teased, brushing your nose against his. “Now come on, professor. Time to be responsible.”

He sighed dramatically and let you go—reluctantly.

But before you could fully pull away, he caught your wrist, tugging you down for one more kiss. Slow. Sleep-warm. Full of the kind of softness that stayed with you all day.

“Text me when you’re back, yeah?” he said, eyes still barely open.

“I will.”

He watched you gather your things with that same quiet fondness, head propped on his hand. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. And when you left—soft click of the door behind you—you carried his gaze with you all the way home.

———

You slipped quietly into your dorm, letting the door click shut behind you with a soft snick. The hall was still quiet, most people probably just waking up or dragging themselves to early lectures.

You texted James you’re back and let out a slow breath.

God.

You still felt him on your skin. Still tasted him on your lips. Still smelled him on your clothes. Every step felt a little too floaty. Like your feet hadn’t quite touched the ground since last night.

You kicked your shoes off near the door, setting your bag down as you glanced toward your roommate.

Sarah was awake.

Sitting up in bed, legs tucked under her, hoodie pushed halfway up her arms and a mug cradled in her hands. Steam curled lazily toward the ceiling, the scent of cheap dorm coffee drifting through the room.

She blinked once. Sipped.

“Well, well, well,” she said, voice thick with amusement. “Look who finally decided to show.”

You froze mid-step. “Shut up.”

Sarah just grinned wider. “No you shut up. You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“That ‘I didn’t sleep in my own bed and I’m definitely not sorry about it’ look.” She set her mug down on the windowsill and leaned forward, squinting at you like a detective. “And is that… is that a love bite? Oh my god.”

You immediately lifted your hand to your neck, face heating. “There’s no love bite.”

“There is,” she said, delighted. “Don’t bother. You’re glowing. And you look freshly ravished. That’s not your walk-of-shame face—that’s your strut-of-shame face.”

You huffed, trying not to laugh as you grabbed a clean outfit from your drawers. “I hate you.”

Sarah flopped back onto her pillow with a smug smile. “No you don’t. You love me because I know when you’re getting laid.”

You pulled your hoodie over your head to hide your grin. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you,” she said, pointing at you with both hands like a judge passing sentence, “are gonna tell me everything the second we both have time and coffee.”

You rolled your eyes as you slipped into the bathroom.

But god… you were still smiling.

And maybe she didn’t know the full story. Maybe she couldn’t. Not yet. But still—there was something about her caring like that, even in the smallest, most teasing way.

———

You walked into the lecture hall just a minute before class began, the low hum of conversation bouncing off the old walls and faded seats.

The moment your eyes found him at the front of the room, you couldn’t help it. The corners of your mouth lifted, soft and secret. He was organizing a few papers on his desk, posture composed, expression unreadable—but then he looked up and saw you.

His face softened instantly. Not much—barely there. Just the faintest twitch of a smile. A tiny gleam in his eyes. Like a secret passed between only the two of you.

Your chest fluttered.

God. You loved that. That moment. That knowing.

You slipped into your usual row, unzipping your bag—only to find someone already sitting beside you.

A guy. Same class, though you hadn’t really noticed him before. He gave you an easy smile as you sat down, a quiet hey, and you blinked in surprise, giving him a polite smile back.

It wasn’t a big deal.

Except—

From the front of the room, James’s smile vanished.

You didn’t see it at first—but you felt it. The subtle shift in the air. When you looked up again, his jaw was clenched. His eyes flicked once toward the guy next to you, then back to the attendance sheet in his hands—but he wasn’t really reading it anymore.

Oh oh.

You tried not to grin. Bit the inside of your cheek to hide it.

Professor Barnes cleared his throat, eyes sweeping the room again like nothing had happened. “Alright, let’s begin.”

But his tone was clipped now. Sharper. More precise. The lecture started—but his gaze kept slipping back to you. Or maybe not to you, exactly.

To the boy sitting next to you.

He didn’t say anything. Of course he didn’t. He was the picture of professionalism, all cool control and eloquence—but there was tension behind it now. Something simmering underneath.

And when the boy leaned a little closer to ask if he could borrow a pen, you were certain James’s hand tightened around the marker in his fist.

You passed the guy the pen wordlessly. Smiled, but barely.

And when you glanced back toward James again, your eyes met.

He didn’t smile this time.

You saw it in his eyes. The dark glint. The jaw set just a little too tight. The look that said:

Mine.

And it sent a thrill straight down your spine.

You were trying to focus.

Truly, you were.

But the boy beside you had other plans.

He leaned over halfway through James’s lecture—voice low, but just loud enough to stir the silence between notes. “I’m Theo, by the way.”

You blinked at him.

He had soft brown eyes, messy hair, and that easy kind of grin boys wore when they thought they were charming. He gestured casually toward your open notebook. “You always take such clean notes. Thought I should finally say hi before the semester ends.”

You smiled—tight, polite, uncomfortable. “Uh… thanks.”

He didn’t seem to notice your hesitation.

“Maybe we could, I don’t know… study together sometime?”

You were just about to respond—just about to come up with something diplomatic, something that wouldn’t sound like I literally have a secret relationship with the man currently lecturing us on narrative motifs—when James’s voice rang out, cool and sharp:

“No talking in class.”

It was so sudden, so pointed, you jumped slightly in your seat.

Theo straightened, blinking. “Sorry, Professor.”

James didn’t answer. Didn’t look at Theo.

His eyes were on you.

Just you.

And the weight of that stare was heavy—controlled, but burning. The same calm tone, the same composed posture, but his gaze?

It was lethal.

You shifted in your seat, pulse ticking a little faster.

“Back to it,” he said simply, turning back to the board. “We were discussing subtext and implication. The things characters say without saying them.”

The irony wasn’t lost on you.

Theo didn’t try to talk again.

And you?

You didn’t dare look up at James for the rest of the class. Not because you were scared but because if you did—you knew exactly what kind of look you’d find waiting.

The rest of the lecture blurred.

James spoke with that same calm cadence, his notes smooth and deliberate, but you could tell. Something had shifted.

Toward the end of class, he adjusted his glasses, clicked his pen, and said, “For next week—an analysis of implicit desire in The Lover. Two pages minimum. No extensions.”

The groan that rippled through the room was collective, but James didn’t flinch. He stood tall behind the podium, one hand braced on the wood, eyes scanning the class with clinical detachment.

Then: “Dismissed.”

Chairs scraped against the floor. Backpacks zipped. Theo gave you a smile as he stood, but you didn’t return it. Your stomach had twisted into something tight and cold.

You stayed seated.

Like always.

Pretending to shuffle your notes slowly. Pretending to organize your bag. Pretending that maybe, just maybe, he’d call you forward like he used to—some quiet remark, some soft look passed between rows of empty chairs.

But today?

He didn’t even look in your direction.

He gathered his own things with surgical precision, clicked his laptop shut, and turned toward the exit. No pause. No nod. No trace of the man who kissed you and held you like you were made of something sacred just hours ago.

You looked up—hope flickering like a dying match.

But he was already at the door.

And then he was gone.

The classroom felt suddenly bigger. Colder. You sat frozen in your chair, the last student left, blinking at the door like maybe he’d come back.

But he didn’t.

And you already knew… he was jealous.

Part 4 soon 💋

tags (tysm for all the love and support, If you asked to be tagged and I didn’t tag you it means I couldn’t for some reason 💔): @iamthatonefangirl @hiraethmae @im-feeling-blue-today @beforemdnight @just4w3irdo @bloodmocha @lovinqbella @its-in-the-woods @muchwita @iyskgd @harrietandcats @shortandb1tchy @luv4kook @grovelingmen @buckybarneswife125 @xamapolax @glitterspark @azrielsgirll @mortallydistinguishedwolf @shaheea @simp4f1 @voidanima @buckytakethewheel @thatsbucknasty

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