TEMPTING MY PROFESSOR

The coffee machine hissed like it was sighing for me. By the third refill of the morning, I couldn’t tell whose exhaustion was louder—mine or the café’s. The scent of roasted beans clung stubbornly to my hair, the kind of smell that never truly washed off. The ache in my feet pulsed through the soles of my shoes, a constant reminder that being a scholarship student came with its own quiet price—one paid in sweat, caffeine, and late-night tears. My phone buzzed in the pocket of my apron, a low vibration that felt almost impatient. I glanced around; Mr. Henson was busy stacking paper cups near the register. I slipped my phone out and answered. “Zoe?” Her voice practically exploded through the line. “Finally! I’ve been calling you for ten minutes. Are you ever not at that café?” A smile tugged at my lips. “Not if I want to keep paying rent.” She groaned dramatically, the kind of sound that made me picture her rolling her eyes. “You need a life, Isabelle.” “I have one. It’s just brewed in espresso shots and caramel drizzle.” Zoe snorted, a sharp little laugh that made warmth bloom in my chest. “You’re impossible. Anyway, listen! Have you seen the new class schedule for senior year? I swear they’re plotting our academic downfall.” I reached into my apron pocket, pulling out the crumpled sheet I’d printed from the university website before my shift. The edges were already smudged with coffee. “Yeah, I saw. I had to change one of my electives. Modern Literature opened up.” “Ooh, sounds fancy. Who’s teaching it? Please tell me it’s not Reynolds again. I can’t survive another semester of him reading poetry like he’s narrating his own funeral.” A quiet laugh escaped me. “No, apparently he’s on leave. Someone else is filling in.” “Lucky you,” Zoe teased. “Maybe you’ll finally get a professor who’s actually awake.” “Or one who doesn’t assign thirty-page papers on Shakespeare’s cats,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. Zoe’s laughter filled my ear again. “See? You do have a sense of humor. I was starting to think that café drained it all out of you.” I leaned on the counter, glancing out the wide glass window. The afternoon sunlight spilled across the street, painting everything gold. Students hurried past in small pairs, their voices full of laughter and complaints about deadlines. My heart twisted a little watching them. That should have been me—walking freely, sipping iced coffee instead of serving it. “It’s my last year,” I murmured. “Just one more year. Then I can breathe.” “Right,” Zoe said, her tone softening. “You’ve worked too hard not to.” Being a scholarship student came with invisible rules. You smiled even when you were tired. You stayed grateful even when life wasn’t kind. The world saw your GPA, not the exhaustion behind it. The double shifts, the skipped meals, the quiet sacrifices—they all stayed hidden, tucked beneath a polite smile and tired eyes. The small bell above the door jingled, cutting through my thoughts. A man walked in. He didn’t fit the usual college-town crowd—no messy backpack, no earbuds, no frantic glance at a phone full of reminders. He was older, mid-thirties maybe, in a tailored black suit that somehow made the dull light seem softer around him. The air shifted, just slightly, as though the room noticed his presence before I did. He ordered without looking up, his voice calm but commanding. “Black coffee. No sugar.” “Coming right up,” I said automatically, though my voice wavered more than I wanted it to. When I handed him the cup, our eyes met. His eyes were brown—sharp, shiny, and deep, like the ocean before a storm. There was something about his gaze that unsettled me, as if he could see past the surface and straight into every secret I’d ever tried to bury. “Thank you,” he said simply, taking the cup from my hand. The words were nothing, ordinary. But his tone… it lingered, smooth and precise, as though he was used to being listened to. He turned and left as quietly as he’d come, the faint scent of cedar and rain following him out the door. “Isabelle?” Zoe’s voice crackled through the phone. “You still there?” I blinked, realizing I’d been staring at the door long after he’d disappeared. “Yeah. Sorry, got distracted.” “With a customer or a cute customer?” she pressed. A small, reluctant smile touched my lips. “Just someone… interesting.” “Uh-huh,” she teased. “You seriously need to start dating again. It’s been what—two years?” “Three,” I corrected softly. She let out a low whistle. “Three years, Belle? That’s practically a lifetime. Maybe this new professor will be the one to make you forget all that heartbreak.” I laughed quietly, though it felt hollow. “Somehow, I doubt that.” “You never know,” she said with that mischievous tone that always made me roll my eyes. “Life has a weird sense of humor.” When we finally hung up, the café felt quieter. I cleaned the counter again, even though it didn’t need it, trying to ignore the echo of that man’s voice in my mind. Something about him tugged at me in a way that made no sense. Outside, the sunlight began to fade, dipping behind the row of oak trees that lined the street. I watched the last streak of gold slip away and told myself to forget it—to forget him. But I couldn’t. Later, I’d find out that the man who walked in for black coffee and left without a smile wasn’t just anyone. He was Professor Noah Miller, the temporary lecturer for Modern Literature. And the reason my carefully built world would begin to crumble, one glance at a time.