Ava
959 Words
Ava Hart
My name is Ava Hart. I’m nineteen, a first-year college student at Rose University.
People say I look like my mom, but I don’t see it. She’s beautiful — tall, glamorous, the kind of woman who turns heads without trying. Me? I’m just... ordinary. Black hair, black eyes, pale skin. Nothing special. Not in a world where being hot is everything.
Sometimes I wonder if anyone really sees me at all.
“Hey,” a voice calls out, pulling me from my thoughts. “Wanna go on a date?”
I stop walking and glance over. A blonde guy with bright blue eyes is smiling at me, trying to look casual. Behind him, a group of boys loiter near the front gate of campus, whispering and snickering. Watching.
A dare.
Of course.
I look him straight in the eye. “No.”
His smile falters.
I don’t give him the chance to respond. I just turn and keep walking, heart pounding but expression calm.
I really hate guys like that. Guys who think girls are toys. A joke. A challenge. I’ve dealt with enough of them to know what they see when they look at me — someone quiet, someone alone, someone easy to mess with.
But I’m not that girl. I never have been.
Sure, I’ve never had a boyfriend. Never even kissed anyone. But not because I’m shy. Because I don’t waste time on people who don’t deserve it.
“Ava!” a voice calls from the classroom door.
I blink and look up.
Serena.
My best friend is waving at me from the front row, her bag already on the seat beside her. Her honey-colored hair is tied in a high ponytail, and her smile is wide, as usual. “Come sit with me!”
I hesitate.
The front row.
Not my favorite place to be. Too close. Too exposed. But Serena’s already patting the seat like she won’t take no for an answer. And honestly, I don’t feel like sitting alone.
I sigh and walk toward her.
“You’re early,” I say as I slide into the chair beside her.
“I wanted a good seat,” she grins. “I heard our prof is hot.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course you did.”
She giggles. “What? A girl can hope.”
I shake my head, biting back a small smile. Serena’s always like this — bright, bold, boy-crazy. And somehow still the only person who makes me feel seen.
I pull out my notebook and rest my chin in my hand. The room slowly fills with chatter and bodies, but I keep my eyes on the door, barely paying attention.
Until it opens.
And then I stop breathing
The door swings open and in he walks.
Nathan.
My stepfather.
He doesn’t look at me. Not yet. He steps inside like he owns the room, like he’s always belonged here. Dark pants. Crisp white button-down. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair is still slightly damp, like he showered just before coming in. His jaw is clean-shaven today, sharper than usual, and his broad shoulders stretch the fabric just enough to make my stomach twist.
My heart jumps in my chest. I grip the edge of my desk.
He moves to the front casually, like this is normal. Like he hasn’t seen me in a towel. Like I didn’t hear him last night with my mom, his voice low and rough and unforgettable. Like I didn’t see him this morning, shirtless and barely dressed, grabbing coffee with that same mouth he used to make her fall apart.
Serena nudges me. “Damn,” she whispers. “You didn’t say he looked like that.”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
Because Nathan finally looks up.
And he sees me.
Our eyes meet for a split second. One heartbeat. Then he looks away, face unreadable, voice even.
“Good morning. I’m Mr. Blake. You can call me Professor or Sir — either one works.”
Sir. Of course.
I feel heat crawl up my neck.
“I’ll be teaching your Introduction to Romanticism course for this term. I know most of you are here for the credit, but I’ll be expecting more than just warm bodies in seats. You show up, you participate, you read. You don’t, I fail you. Fair warning.”
His tone is smooth, commanding, just like it is at home when he talks to my mom about schedules or groceries or taxes. But here, in front of twenty students and white walls, it sounds different.
More dangerous.
I glance down at my notebook and try to keep my breathing steady. But I can still feel his eyes on me. Just a flicker. A scan. Not obvious. But I know it’s there.
I feel it.
Serena is scribbling something on her notes beside me. I glance over.
"Bet he’s great in bed 😏"
I nearly choke on my own spit. I cough once and quickly look away, hiding my face with my hand.
If only she knew.
Nathan turns to the board and begins writing in sharp, clean strokes. His handwriting is elegant, just like the rest of him. Controlled. Strong.
Romanticism: a movement driven by emotion, imagination, and rebellion.
Fitting.
My legs cross under the desk, my skin prickling with tension. I try to focus on the lecture, on the words, but all I can think about is the sound of his voice when it’s not professional. When it’s whispered. When it’s low and sinful in the dark.
He doesn’t look at me again. Not for the rest of the class.
But I can feel him watching.
And I know he can feel me too.
- Writer
