Three
1249 Words
ARIA
By the third class, I had trained myself not to stare.
Not at the way his shirt fit.
Not at the way he spoke—calm, calculated, like every word he used had been studied and sharpened.
And definitely not at the way he occasionally looked directly at me when delivering key points, like he knew I needed to hear them first.
So yeah, I had rules now.
Rules that were working. Mostly.
Until today.
We had barely settled into our seats when he strode in, carrying something strange: a wicker basket.
Jess leaned toward me. “Either we’re pulling names for Secret Santa, or we’re about to get roasted.”
Dr. Carter set the basket down on the desk.
“No, this is not your early holiday gift,” he said without looking up. “This is your research assignment for the semester.”
Several groans filled the room. One girl in the back whispered, “I knew it.”
But he didn’t flinch.
“I’ve done this every year. Inside this basket are slips of paper. Each one has a topic related to advanced psychological behavior, often taboo, controversial, or misunderstood. You’ll research your assigned topic, submit a paper, and present your findings at the end of the term.”
He picked up the basket and walked around the rows, offering it one by one.
“No swaps. No trades. You get what you pick.”
Jess raised her hand. “What if we get a topic we hate?”
He stopped and glanced at her. “Then you’ll learn the value of discomfort. Growth doesn’t happen in comfort zones.”
Oof.
She slouched back, muttering, “Did he rehearse that?”
When the basket finally reached me, I dipped my hand in and felt around the tiny folded papers like they were lottery tickets.
My fingertips brushed one. I pulled it out.
Unfolded it.
Froze.
BDSM: Psychological Motivations and Power Dynamics.
What the hell.
My pulse spiked.
I read it again, thinking maybe I was imagining it. Nope. The bold, black text stared back at me like it knew all my secrets.
Jess leaned over. “What’d you get?”
I hesitated, then flipped it toward her under the desk. She read it and her mouth fell open in delighted horror.
“No way.”
I gave her the 'do not say a single word out loud' look.
Too late.
Dr. Carter’s gaze locked onto me. Just for a second.
But it was enough.
Enough to make me want to disappear into the floor.
Enough to make me feel like he had planned this.
Had he?
No. He wouldn’t do that.
Would he?
I tried to steady my breathing, but my thoughts were already spiraling. I wasn’t a prude. I’d taken human sexuality classes before. I knew what b**m was—in theory.
But researching it in-depth? Writing about it? Presenting it? In his class?
In front of him?
Hell.
This wasn’t just a topic. It was a trap.
And I had just walked right into it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I stared at the words on the paper for the tenth time that day.
BDSM: Psychological Motivations and Power Dynamics.
Seriously? Out of every possible topic in that stupid basket—why this?
The worst part wasn’t the topic itself. It was how aware I became of him the second I read it. Of his voice. His eyes. The way his hand brushed mine when I passed the basket back.
It was nothing.
But it felt like too much.
I shoved the paper into my folder and checked the time. I had fifteen minutes before his office hours ended.
Should I go?
No.
Yes.
No—
Dammit, I was already halfway down the psychology wing.
I slowed outside his door, heart racing like I was about to commit a crime.
It’s just academic, I reminded myself. I just want clarification.
I knocked, twice, sharp and confident.
Even though I didn’t feel either.
“Come in,” came his voice, smooth and low.
I stepped inside.
He was seated behind his desk, one hand resting on a thick book, the other wrapped around a mug of black coffee. He looked up as I entered—and I swore something flickered behind his expression. Brief. But unmistakable.
“Miss Morgan.”
His voice did things to my spine I didn’t want to acknowledge.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” I said, stepping in and gently shutting the door behind me.
“You’re within office hours. You’re not interrupting.”
I walked toward his desk but didn’t sit.
Instead, I handed him the slip of paper like it was radioactive.
“This is my topic.”
He read it without reacting. Then looked back at me. “Yes.”
“I just… wanted to know if I could switch.”
“No.”
Just like that.
I blinked. “No?”
“No,” he repeated, setting the paper aside. “The rules were clear. No swaps, no exceptions.”
“I understand that, but—” I hesitated, flustered. “Is it appropriate to assign a topic like this in a class where... you know... you are the one grading it?”
His brows lifted slightly. “Are you suggesting I gave you that topic intentionally?”
Yes. No. I didn’t even know anymore.
“I’m suggesting that I’m not comfortable with it,” I said instead. “It feels… personal.”
“It isn’t.”
“But it feels like it is,” I argued, a little more firmly than intended.
Silence stretched between us.
Then he stood.
Not abruptly. Not aggressively.
But slowly, like every movement was calculated.
He stepped around the desk and stood a few feet from me, arms crossed, his tone level.
“Aria,” he said quietly, “you’re not a child. You’re an adult. A psychology student. And this is a topic that explores human behavior, power, and control all of which are central to this field. If it makes you uncomfortable, that’s precisely why it matters.”
I stared at him. My breath caught in my throat.
He stepped closer. Just a little. Not enough to be inappropriate.
But enough for me to feel the air shift between us.
“This isn’t about you and me,” he added, voice lower now. “It’s about how far you’re willing to challenge your thinking.”
My throat was dry. “And what if I fail that challenge?”
“Then I’ll grade you accordingly.”
A flicker of something passed between us.
And suddenly I wasn’t sure if we were talking about the assignment anymore.
He turned and walked back to his desk, grabbing a pen.
“Your paper is due in six weeks. Presentation in eight. I suggest you start with the Stanford study on consensual dominance and control.”
He slid a post-it across the desk with a few resources written down.
I stared at the list. Then at him.
There was no smirk. No innuendo. Just piercing focus.
Still, my skin felt hot. My pulse unsteady.
I grabbed the note, nodded, and turned to leave.
But at the door, his voice stopped me again.
“Aria.”
I turned halfway, fingers tightening on the doorknob.
“There’s nothing wrong with being uncomfortable,” he said. “But don’t confuse discomfort with danger.”
I didn’t answer.
Because in that moment, I wasn’t sure I could tell the difference.
- Writer
